


Entangled

by brokibrodinson, scaresandcrows



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, First Time, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 108,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokibrodinson/pseuds/brokibrodinson, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaresandcrows/pseuds/scaresandcrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor is captured by the Templars and placed in the custody of his father, the Grand Master. An unlikely bond is forged between the two of them, but will it be enough to overcome the centuries-old Assassin/Templar conflict?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So scaresandcrows and I have decided to publish the entirety of our ConHayth RP, in which she plays Connor and I play Haytham.
> 
> As it's quite long we're splitting it into chapters that we'll publish on a regular basis. However we've decided to leave it in its original RP formatting, which should still be readable, it just means there will be regular shifts between both characters' points of view, which may lead to the occasional repetition and/or backtracking.
> 
> We hope you enjoy!

The mission had been an ordinary one.

Connor had gotten wind by word of Duncan Little that an important Templar contact was staying at an inn in Boston. In retrospect, it should have been easy— find a way inside without garnering too much attention, seize any and all written correspondence, then escape with the stolen information. He hadn’t expected the small army of Templar mercenaries stationed outside the building. He hadn’t expected to be spotted with one foot out the window. He hadn’t expected to be cornered in one of the city’s back alleyways. 

He managed to take down four of his attackers, something he would be proud of later, before an unlucky blow to the head sent him spiralling into unconsciousness.

All sense of time had vanished when Connor awoke, vision swimming, to a dark room. It was empty, and even though it lacked the cold dankness of a prison cell, it was more than obvious he was still a prisoner. Wrists bound and weaponry gone, he’d been left to sit on the floor. The papers and letters he’d gone through so much trouble to get were long gone. At least, Connor thought bitterly, his captors had spared him the indignity of taking his clothes as well.

The Assassin was already testing the strength of his bonds when there came the sound of voices from outside the door. They were muffled, clearly just the ramblings of two gossiping guards, but Connor distinctly heard the words ‘Grand Master’ and what was possibly ‘interrogate’ in the same sentence. If his father was, indeed, on his way, that did not bode well for his situation. It may have only been weeks since they’d allied to locate Church, however Connor was almost certain Haytham would give him no quarter. They were still enemies regardless of their teamwork over those few months, and he had attempted to make off with valuable Templar intelligence after all. That was something the Grand Master would not look kindly on.

Haytham couldn’t help feeling a keen sense of satisfaction as he strode purposefully down the corridor to where his son was being kept. From what he’d seen while the two of them were working together, it was just like Connor to rush headlong into a situation without pausing to calculate the risks.

Not for the first time, Haytham wondered how the boy had ever managed to kill so many of his men in the first place. He relied too much on his strength and raw talent, and his bladework lacked finesse. Perhaps it was a mixture of luck and sheer determination that had carried him up to this point.

Well it seemed his luck had run out.

Approaching the room now, the guards posted on the door spotted him and inclined their heads in deference before scrambling to open it for him. He entered the room, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the darkness.

“Connor,” he greeted the Assassin pleasantly, eyes making out the bound figure on the floor of the room. He turned to one of the guards. “Fetch me a light, will you?”

Nodding, the guard left and swiftly returned with an oil lantern.

Haytham took it and gestured for the guards to leave them, shutting the door behind them.

Turning back around, his gaze fell back upon Connor, now illuminated by the dim light of the lantern. “So,” he began. “Quite a mess you’ve got yourself into.”

"Father," Connor acknowledged Haytham coldly, squinting against the light of the lantern. The dim flame felt like staring into a thousand suns after being locked away in utter blackness for so long. 

"Where am I? Why are you here?" he demanded and tugged at his bindings further. It wasn't like Connor to feel threatened by his father. During their several months of camaraderie, if it could even be called that, the Assassin had been confident in his ability to defend himself from anything Haytham might try. Here in this room, the tides had turned drastically. He was almost entirely defenceless without the use of his weapons or hands. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and Connor did not like it one bit. "Come to finally kill me?"

Haytham chuckled quietly. “And here I thought _I’d_ be asking the questions. I suppose it does me no harm to answer yours first however. You’re in a highly secure chamber of Fort George, so I _do_ hope you won’t insult me with any foolish attempts at escape. _I_ am here because you’ve been a thorn in our side for long enough and I wanted to make sure it really was you whom they captured.”

Haytham paused, his dark eyes glittering as they reflected the light of his lantern. “As for your last question, well I haven’t quite decided yet.”

Quiet descended upon the dimly lit room, Haytham shifting to lean against the wall, never once taking his eyes off the Assassin. Connor’s behaviour was uncharacteristically nervous, and fear made people unpredictable, even when bound and weaponless.

“To my questions now,” Haytham said, breaking the silence. “What made you think we would ever house an important contact of ours without any sort of proper protection?” he asked, voice scathing. “Did you _actually_ expect to get away with it? I knew you had a penchant for stupid decisions but this verges on insanity!”

"I almost did," the Assassin bitterly pointed out with a defiant tilt of his chin, "Your men got _lucky_." Had he not turned around at precisely the wrong moment, that Templar soldier would have never gotten close enough to ram the butt of his rifle into the base of his skull. Regardless of what his father might say, and Connor was certain there would be  _something_ , it was mere luck that landed him in this cell. He refused to acknowledge it as anything but. 

He tried to make out Haytham's face, but between the blinding glow of the lamp and the haziness that marred his vision, he quickly realised it was a fruitless endeavour. The man was nothing but a dark blur. He would have to base his actions on movement alone.

Vaguely aware of a dull throbbing in his head, Connor's brows pinched in a glare. "I am not in the mood to play your games, father. Tell me what you intend to do with me."

“You are in no position to make demands, boy,” Haytham reminded him calmly. “Whether it was my men’s luck or your utter incompetence matters very little now. The fact is that you are at my mercy and your behaviour thus far has done little to convince me that I should let you live. Of course I _could_ just kill you now and have done with it,” he paused to engage his hidden blade, letting the steel release from its catch with a quiet _snik_.

“However, you _have_ proved useful in the past which leaves me to wonder whether it would be a waste of a potential asset if I simply killed you here and now.”

He sighed. “Of course Charles believes you should be broken and humiliated or something to that effect, but I can’t help being of the view that it would be a waste of someone of your... abilities. And so, here we are.”

Connor went deathly still at the tell-tale hiss of steel. It occurred to him minutely that he'd never once bothered to find out how, exactly, Haytham had come into possession of the hidden blade. Although now, he supposed, the hows or whys hardly made a difference. What was important was that Haytham wouldn't hesitate to use it given the chance.

At the mention of Charles Lee, the Assassin's lips bared in a snarl and he began to struggle to free himself with renewed vigour. "You can _try_." He'd certainly endured far worse torture than anything either Lee or his father could dole out, after all. "My men will come for me," he ground out, though it was said with little conviction. If what Haytham said was true, he was in Fort George. It could take weeks or even months for the others to find a way past its defences. If they even knew he was there.

Haytham laughed mockingly. “You don’t seem very certain of that,” he pointed out. “And it is highly unlikely; you were moved here in complete secrecy and very few of my ownmen know you are here, let alone yours. You can stop trying to break free of your bonds; there is no escape forthcoming. You’re probably just going to injure yourself.”

He raised the lantern up to Connor’s face, tsking as the Assassin flinched away from the light of the flame. “That reminds me,” he continued. “The men who brought you here said you’d been knocked out with a blow to the head. I suppose I should get someone to come and look at you; you’re of no use to anyone if you die of a concussion. But before that I have a proposition for you to think about.”

He bent down so he was at eye level with Connor. “Withdraw your support from Washington and swear allegiance to me,” he urged. “Washington is a fool and doesn’t deserve your loyalty. You’ve seen it with your own eyes. If you do this, we can end this ridiculous war between Assassin and Templar and focus on more important goals.”

"No," Connor spat, wrists twisting in futile desperation behind his back. He refused to give up, and he refused to betray George Washington's trust as he had betrayed his. Without Washington, the Revolution would fall, taking with it all hope of freedom. His father could profess all he liked that the Templar Order opposed British control of the Colonies, but what they truly desired was to take that control and use it to their own gains, and Connor would have no part of it.

Once upon a time, he'd had a dream that one day both Templars and Assassins could put aside their differences and work together for a common cause. He had learned quickly that it was just that: a dream. And a ridiculous one, at that. "And  _you_  are a fool to think I would join you." Connor used what leverage he could to lurch forward and headbutt the man in front of him. It proved to be a rather poor choice. The Assassin's head pounded angrily, threatening to rob him of what little sight he had. He gasped harshly, leaning back against the stone wall. "I... would rather die... than swear allegiance to someone... like you."

Haytham reeled backwards with a startled hiss, clutching his throbbing head. “I’m starting to wonder if you don’t _want_ to die,” he snarled, taking silent note of Connor’s pained gasps. Moving forward, he grasped the back of the Assassin’s hood and hauled him up to survey him properly. Though it was difficult to see in the meagre light, he suspected Connor’s face was paler than usual, and his forehead seemed to shine with a thin sheen of perspiration. “I suspect you just did more damage to yourself than to me,” he mused. “Considering your condition.”

He released Connor with a low frustrated sound, letting him slump back against the wall. “I will send for a doctor to see to you,” he said, straightening. “In the meantime I suggest you rethink your answer.”

Walking swiftly to the door, he gave Connor one last considering look before leaving the dark room, closing the door firmly behind him and leaving Connor in complete darkness once more.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor is high and Haytham plots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we've decided to try and update twice a week. You're probably going to want to kill us at the end of this chapter, but I promise the next one will be worth the wait when it comes out (hopefully on Monday).  
> Anyway enjoy!

Several days passed with no word from Haytham.

Much to his surprise, Connor’s father had called on a doctor just as promised: a short, beady-eyed man that looked about as unhappy to be treating him as he was to be treated. Connor didn't trust him. He was probably a Templar.

Yet, when hours turned into days and only progress was to be had, the Assassin had to admit he may have misjudged him. Or perhaps that was simply the opiates talking. They were administered every morning when the doctor arrived along with a brief examination and a stern recommendation to get plenty of rest. Connor wasn't exactly sure how he was expected to do so when bound and confined to the hard ground. He made do though. He had no other choice. Not until his fellow Assassins came for him. 

Haytham sighed to himself as he stared absently through his window.  He’d deliberately left Connor alone for a few days in the hope that his isolation would trigger a change of heart in the young Assassin. In the meantime he’d buried himself in paperwork to keep his mind occupied; otherwise he would grow restless and pace his chambers, wondering if he ought to check on his son’s recovery.

The doctor he had sent for came highly recommended and he trusted he would stabilise Connor’s condition, but the thought continued to nag at him. Haytham wondered why he was so concerned; it was unlike him to care about the fate of a prisoner, even one he had worked with in the past. After all, he had seen to the death of Church without any remorse had he not? Even if it was Connor himself who had actually struck the final blow. And that was just it wasn’t it? Haytham had meant it when he’d said Connor had proved his usefulness in the past. He didn’t like waste and would prefer to make Connor useful again rather than kill him.

But how? Men like Charles tended to rely on brute force to get their way, but personally Haytham had always found that approach rather vulgar. As Grand Master he strove to rise above such methods, preferring subtle manipulation to physical coercion.

Haytham hadn’t quite decided on the best strategy to take with Connor and he wasn’t going to figure it out by staying away, he reasoned. Pushing his chair back, he rose to his feet and headed over to where Connor was being kept.

Connor wasn't certain how long it had been since the doctor had left. There was no sense of time in the small room he was being housed in, only darkness and his own jumbled thoughts. The bitter tincture— laudanum, that man had said— he was repeatedly given made him careless and unable to think straight. He was well aware that someone, namely his father, could easily enter his cell and end his life without so much as a fight, and still, Connor could not bring himself to care. Not when the effects were at their full height. The important thing, he supposed, was that it made the lingering pain from his injury vanish, often within minutes.

He was dimly aware of the door opening, though he was far too dizzy to open his eyes much less look to see who it was. It occurred to him that it could be the doctor, but that couldn't be right. It could not have been an entire day already. The opium had not yet worn off.

That left one person.

"Father?" Connor found himself calling out.

“Connor,” Haytham replied, confirming his presence. Closing the door behind him, he paused as his gaze fell upon the Assassin. Connor seemed... odd somehow. Off-kilter. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, and he seemed listless. Haytham hoped it was the after-effects of the doctor’s treatment rather than a fever having taken hold. It was strange to see his son with his senses so dulled. Admittedly Connor would be far easier to influence in this state.

“Are you well?” he found himself asking.

Connor made a short, breathless noise that could have been a laugh.  _Was_  he well? He _thought_  so. Then again, there was no way he could truly be certain with such a potent cocktail thrumming through his veins. "I believe so," he responded slowly, the words heavy on his tongue, and cracked open a single eye to chance a look at the Templar Grand Master. Haytham’s form swam in and out of focus until Connor was forced to close it again. "The doctor has been giving me... laudanum," he added with a slight pause, surprised he was able to pronounce the strange word at all, "He claims it is the best treatment available." He didn't know why he was trying to explain. This could be, and probably was, some elaborate scheme of his father's. Yet, where there would normally be apprehension or even fear, Connor felt nothing but blissful numbness. "Why have you come back?"

Haytham tilted his head, half-amused at Connor’s slurred speech. “I suppose I came to ensure that you hadn’t inadvertently died these past few days,” he answered dryly.

Laudanum. Well that certainly explained the boy’s strange behaviour. He didn’t even appear to be particularly hostile; his question had been asked with an air of genuine curiosity rather than suspicion. Interesting.

Haytham moved closer, testing the waters, and came to a stop right in front of Connor. Crouching, he raised one hand and took hold of Connor’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, raising his head to examine his face properly. “I suppose I should thank the good doctor for his work.”

Connor made a half-hearted attempt at tugging away, but Haytham's hold on his chin was firm and Connor quickly gave up. It was simply not worth the struggle to move. Instead, he opted to open his eyes again. His pupils were blown wide against the light of the lantern and it was clear he was struggling to focus, gaze darting every which way before finally settling on the elder man's face. Haytham seemed far too close. Or was that his mind playing tricks on him?

"You were worried," he stated blatantly, eyelids almost drifting shut before they were blinked wide again.

Haytham snorted softly, a sharp denial already upon his tongue before he paused. Connor thought he was worried about him? He could work with that. Perhaps if he planted the idea that he actually cared about his son’s wellbeing, the boy would grow to trust him more.

He already regretted the bluntness of his earlier approach when he had simply demanded Connor’s loyalty to his cause, but perhaps the situation could still be salvaged. It would be more difficult to manipulate him now that Haytham had revealed what he hoped to gain from the Assassin, but if he played his cards right he might be able to strike up a kind of rapport between the two of them while he held Connor captive. If he was successful, once released Connor would return to him on a regular basis, giving him an opportunity to wheedle information from him.

It would be difficult - Connor was naïve but not a complete fool – but given enough time, Haytham was confident he could accomplish it.  

“Perhaps I was a bit worried,” he allowed, noting the lack of focus in Connor’s gaze before dropping his hand. “It would be a shame to have cut your life so short.”

Under normal circumstances, Connor would have been wary of such words. They had worked together for months in the pursuit of Church, most of which was spent in close quarters on the _Aquila._ There had been plenty of death threats and insults, but not once had his father expressed any sentiment beyond an occasional, reluctant 'well done' when Connor happened to do something he approved of. He knew Haytham didn't feign affection— he'd said those very words himself— and Connor had long since stopped expecting any. So it came as a great shock, even in his current state, when Haytham actually admitted to being at least slightly concerned for his well-being.  _His_  well-being, of all people.

It should have set off alarm bells given their previous conversation, but any suspicion he might have felt was curiously absent, replaced with an emotion he couldn't quite describe. Connor let his head fall back against the wall, lips quirking in a small smile that lacked his usual tension. "It has been days," he finally said quietly, brows drawn together, "Where were you?"

“I wasn’t far,” Haytham assured him quietly. “You must understand that a man in my position cannot simply abandon his duties.” Coming to a decision, he rose to his feet and walked over to the door, opening it and signalling the guards over. “The prisoner is to be moved to improved accommodation,” he ordered. “Give him one of the empty rooms in the tower.” They were not exactly luxurious but at least he’d have a bed and some windows. The guards looked puzzled but nodded.

Haytham returned to where Connor still lay. “Can you stand?” he asked briskly. “You’re being moved, there’s no conversation to be had in this dark pit.” As the guards passed him he murmured “Keep him bound.” He was under no illusions as to the competency of two guards when pitted against an Assassin, even when drugged.

With a pang of guilt that surprised him, Haytham wondered if Connor had been fed. It seemed unlikely considering he’d given no such order. “I’ll send for some food as well,” he said, business-like. “You must be hungry.”

At the mention of a meal and a proper place to stay, Connor's expression twisted into one of confusion, eyes narrowing in a short display of cognisance before he appeared to decide questioning it wasn't important. Did it truly matter? He was being moved to another room, one in the fort's tower. There would be light and food and warmth. Hopefully a bed as well. It sounded like paradise compared to the cold, hard darkness of the cell he was currently housed in. 

Connor nodded sluggishly upon being asked if he could stand, shuffling against the wall as he tried to get his footing. However, after the second time his knees buckled under him, shaky and weak from fatigue and disuse, he had to concede that perhaps he'd been wrong. He sat back down with a thud, breath coming in heavy pants, and Connor shot his father a pleading look. "I... I cannot-" he started to say and trailed off.

Oh dear. Connor was in worse shape than he’d realised. Haytham glanced over his shoulder at the guards. “Help him up,” he commanded, moving out of the way so they could pass him, “and escort him to his new room. I will be up shortly.”

Taking a short trip down to the kitchen, he requested that a meal be brought up to the tower for Connor. That done, he went up to the tower himself. Thanking the guards for their assistance, he ordered them out of the room and then turned to consider Connor. Now that he was in proper lighting, the Assassin looked very pale and was once again in a slump on the floor.

“Your food is on its way,” he told him quietly. “I will unbind your hands so you can eat; I suggest you don’t try anything reckless.”

The walk to his new quarters was slow-going. The guards had not been sympathetic toward his condition in the slightest, manhandling and shoving him along until he could scarcely stand up straight. It was a miracle he hadn't fallen.

After staggering, dizzy, across half of Fort George, Connor felt nothing but relief when he was dropped unceremoniously on the floor. He heard a door slam and then all was quiet. Was this the place? It was light. Airy. Nothing like the room he'd been confined to before.

Connor dragged himself into a sitting position, begging the walls to stop spinning. No sooner had he rested his head back against the cool stone then the door creaked open, followed by the heavy click of boots. The footsteps stopped nearby, and Connor tilted his head to the side, eyeing the blurry form with complete lack of fear. He instantly recognised the individual as his father when he began to speak. There was no mistaking that voice. Though it sounded a lot softer, a lot kinder, than he remembered.

"Why are you doing all this?" he asked, already attempting to turn around, desperate to be rid of the chafing rope binding his wrists. Even if only for a moment.

Connor’s lack of fear was rather gratifying, Haytham thought briefly. Why  _was_ he doing all this? Mostly because he believed Connor was a valuable weapon and source of information, but such a utilitarian answer wouldn’t suit the course of action he’d decided to take with the boy.

“It... pains me to see you like this,” he said instead, letting his voice pitch low and sincere. Let Connor think he was a slave to his own sentiment; it mattered little to him if it meant he appeared more trustworthy. Crouching, he carefully untied the coarse rope from his son’s wrists and put it to the side, allowing himself to grip Connor’s shoulder reassuringly before straightening again.

A knock came at the door. Haytham turned to answer it and found one of the kitchen staff waiting with a tray in her hands. Bread and a hearty looking stew. Good. Taking it with murmured thanks, he closed the door again and set it down in front of Connor.

“Don’t eat too fast,” he warned.

Despite their tumultuous, and often violent, history, Connor didn't doubt the answer he was given for a second. Haytham's honeyed words easily slipped past his weakened defences. They seeped through the cracks of the wall he'd constructed around himself and pooled, gentle and warm, in his chest. It was a strange, unfamiliar sensation that left Connor wishing for more.

Giving in to the urge to stretch and roll his aching shoulders, the Assassin watched with an unsteady gaze as his father left his side only to return moments later with a tray of piping hot stew and half a loaf of bread. He hadn't realised just how hungry he was until his stomach gave a loud rumble.

Connor didn't wait for permission. He immediately reached for the bread, tearing off a sizeable chunk and stuffing it in his mouth with little regard for manners. He wolfed it down along with a second piece of bread before turning his attention to the stew. It was difficult to heed Haytham's warning as he messily shovelled in spoonful after spoonful like a man starved. The bowl was nearly empty once he had finally had his fill. 

He wiped at his lips shakily, a twinge of humiliation at his uncouth behaviour turning his cheeks a faint pink. "Thank you..." he eventually muttered.

“You are welcome,” Haytham replied warmly, pleased to see some colour return to Connor’s cheeks. It reminded him of the old Connor; the proud, fierce Connor he had worked alongside during the period they were allied. It had bothered him more than he had realised to see his son so weak and apathetic. He made a mental note to consult the doctor about his prescribed dosage. He had no desire to see Connor so frail again while under his roof.

With a shock Haytham realised he was feeling  _protective_. That was troubling. So too was the unexpected rush of fondness he was beginning to recognise every time he looked at the boy. Forcibly quashing the feeling, he examined the Assassin closely.

His son  _was_  rather handsome, he noted absently with a bizarre sense of pride. In his face he recognised Ziio’s fine features and noble bearing that had drawn him to her in the first place. But then when he blinked he could see parts of himself reflected in those dark eyes. And yet there was more to Connor than that; he possessed a wildness and determination that was entirely his own.

Realising he’d been staring, Haytham cleared his throat and averted his gaze. With luck Connor hadn’t noticed in his inebriated state. Information. Yes, that’s why he was here.

“Are you feeling any better?” he asked casually.   
  
"A bit, yes," Connor replied, utterly oblivious to the way his father had been watching him with such rapt attention. It was truly amazing what a simple meal could do. Already, he could feel the dizziness that plagued him begin to ebb. "But I still cannot think clearly," he admitted with a furrow of his brow, a weakness he would have never dared to reveal were it not for the opiates clouding his judgement. "This... laudanum... It is strong."

He rubbed his bruised and irritated wrists slowly and stared down at his lap with eyes half-lidded with satiation. He wondered absently what it would take to persuade Haytham to leave the bindings off for the time being.

"I am not accustomed to feeling like this."

Haytham was surprised that Connor was willing to confide how much the drug was still affecting him. This arrangement was working to his advantage even better than he’d expected. Or it would be, if he could keep his own emotions in check.

He kept catching himself fighting the urge to touch Connor, to trace his features with gentle fingers and reassure him that it was going to be alright.

Ridiculous, and yet he reached out all the same, settling for brushing a stray lock of hair out of the boy’s eyes. “The laudanum will wear off,” he said consolingly. “You will regain your senses soon enough.”

A shame really, for would Connor continue to be as open with him then as he was now? It seemed highly unlikely. Perhaps now was the time to take advantage of his weakness and bind Connor to him. If it was profound enough, surely some semblance of it would carry over when Connor’s wits returned.

But how? Haytham’s eyes scanned the Assassin again, trying to think of the best way to exploit his current vulnerability. Eyeing his bowed head as the boy contemplated his sore wrists, Haytham had a horrifyingly fascinating idea.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which this fic begins to earn its Explicit rating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning for this chapter - as you know from the previous chapter, Connor's still under the influence of some pretty heavy drugs (laudanum is literally opium), which means he's not entirely in control of his mental faculties and is more easily influenced.  
> Basically what I'm trying to say is that there's **dubious consent** in this chapter. So be warned.

“Connor,” Haytham began softly. “Have you ever been with a woman?”

Connor lifted his head, bewilderment written plainly across his face and shifted uncomfortably on the floor, the pain in his wrists forgotten. He couldn't quite meet Haytham's eyes when he looked at him.

"No," he mumbled with an edge of hesitance borne more from embarrassment than distrust. "I have... I have not."

He was twenty-two years old— well past the age of hasty trysts and youthful experimentation— and had yet to kiss a woman much less lie with one. Between all the years of training, his responsibilities to the Brotherhood and the vow he'd made to protect his people, there had been little time or energy for seeking out personal pleasure. It was not something that kept him up at night. However, now that the truth was out in the open, Connor was painfully aware of how pathetic his self-imposed abstinence must sound to a man like his father. 

"Why do you ask?"

Haytham smiled slightly at Connor’s hesitant answer. Somehow he’d expected as much. He answered Connor’s question with another of his own.

“What about a man?” he asked, even more quietly, though he suspected he already knew the answer. Oh this was quite a risk, Haytham thought, a dangerous thrill running through him. Somehow the idea that Connor was a virgin, untouched, made him all the more tempting. His embarrassment as he admitted it was rather endearing as well.

Haytham wondered silently if he was truly depraved enough to start thinking of Connor in such a way. Looking at the boy, flushed and confused on the floor, he found his answer.

Yes.

The fact his own question had gone unanswered didn't seem to concern the Assassin as it slowly dawned on him just what he'd been asked. He couldn't wrap his head around it. It was one thing to wonder if he had any female romantic interests. Most parents were curious and often wanted grandchildren. But why would his father insinuate that he would want to lie with another man? It wasn't as though the thought hadn't occurred to him once or twice when his hand would wander in the middle of the night, but...

"Sodomy is a crime," he said waveringly and began to make a weak attempt to stand. He managed to get halfway up the wall before he was forced to stop, breath coming in uneven drags.

"But I have... I have considered it." Connor flushed hot, unfocused gaze locked on the ceiling. What in the world had possessed him to say something so dangerous and foolish? He wasn't so intoxicated he couldn't see how admitting to something like that, especially to a man as powerful as the Templar Grand Master, would see him hanging from a noose in a heartbeat.

And, still, he talked.

"A few times." 

Haytham watched lazily as Connor attempted to stand, as though physically trying to leave the conversation. So the boy did harbour a few secret desires inside that seemingly guileless head of his. Interesting.

Connor was staring uncomfortably at the ceiling, baring his throat in the process. A heady thread of newly discovered lust ran through Haytham at the sight, heating his blood. He knew he couldn’t just fall upon Connor and ravish him, increasingly tempting as the thought was. Connor’s trust was fragile and such carelessness could easily destroy the progress he had made with him thus far. He would have to be patient.

Haytham approached Connor slowly, carefully insinuating himself into the Assassin’s personal space until he was standing right in front of him. Mirroring his earlier actions, he took hold of Connor’s chin between his thumb and index finger, angling his head to force him to meet his eyes.

“How perfectly wicked of you,” he murmured, letting his voice drop into a low purr before leaning closer to brush Connor’s lips with his own.

The closer Haytham stepped forward, the more uneasy Connor became. Apparently, his aversion to physical contact carried over regardless of what state he was in. If his father noticed, he didn't care. He didn't stop until there were scant centimetres separating them. Fingers gripped his unshaven chin, and the Assassin made to pull away, but then lips were ghosting across his own and Connor froze.

Oh.

The puzzle slowly started piecing itself together. The questions, the doctor, the food, the new room, the kindness...

 _Oh_.

Seconds ticked by and he could only stare dimly, caught in the smouldering gaze of Haytham's eyes. In the back of his mind, Connor knew this was wrong. Everything about this situation was _wrong_. Fathers were not supposed to gently kiss their sons like they would a lover. Sons were not supposed to like it.

And he had liked it.

They had spent so long bickering and hating and fighting, Connor couldn't help but gravitate toward this new-found affection like a moth to a flame. It was sick; it was horrifying and frightening. Not to mention illegal. Haytham was probably toying with his emotions, and if he had any sense, he would punch the man and be done with it.

Yet he still wanted it. Even if it was just once, even if it was like this, he wanted to know what it was like to have a father who cared for him.

"No one must know," he said, barely audible.

Haytham made a soft noise of agreement; it was certainly of no benefit to him for anyone to know of this.

Connor had been delightfully pliant and unresisting against his mouth. Probably from utter shock, Haytham knew, and yet the boy had still made no move to push him away. He kissed him again, this time letting some of his own hunger bleed through as his tongue traced his bottom lip. The hand not gripping Connor’s chin was braced against the wall behind him as he pressed closer, his body pinning the Assassin against the cool stone. A low growl escaped his throat and he nipped at Connor’s mouth, demanding entry.  
  
Connor was intoxicating this close, his body firm and broad where it was pressed against his. Hot desire ran through Haytham, coupled with a delicious sense of wrongness. Distantly he was sure this made him a monster, but the thought did not trouble him overmuch. He had never balked from taking what he wanted.

Connor's lips parted with little objection, groaning faintly when Haytham hungrily took the opportunity it presented. It had yet to escape him that this was his  _father_  he was kissing. This was his father's tongue lazily twining around his own-- his own flesh and blood. It was wrong, so very, very wrong, but Connor revelled in the attention. Perhaps it was the drugs clouding his judgement, but he felt  _wanted_.

The kiss was sloppy and lacked finesse, mostly due to his own shortcomings. The Assassin tried to mimic his father's motions, the slow, languid slide of lips and tongue, but for all his willingness to learn and eagerness to please, his inexperience still shone through. Reaching up with an unsteady hand, Connor fisted a hand in the fabric of Haytham's overcoat, tugging him impossibly closer. "Why?" he asked, panting, as they pulled away for much-needed air. "Why me? Why now?"

Haytham was surprised at how little he minded Connor’s obvious inexperience; if anything he was spurred on by this stark reminder of how he was defiling the boy’s innocence. Once they broke apart to breathe he could have rolled his eyes at the Assassin’s relentless questioning. Was he fishing for compliments? He certainly seemed touch-starved, judging by the way his fingers were clutching at Haytham’s coat.

“Stop talking,” Haytham snarled instead, moving his hand to grip Connor’s hair tightly and using it to pull his head back and bare his throat. His mouth descended upon the newly bared flesh, sucking on it and using his teeth to mark the Assassin as his own.

His other hand that had previously been resting against the wall slipped down between their bodies to press curious fingers between Connor’s legs, stroking him teasingly through the cloth of his trousers.

Connor visibly winced at the harsh reprimand. This was the Haytham he was used to, not the uncharacteristically tender and caring man from moments before. Connor swallowed thickly, Adam's apple bobbing, unconsciously baring his neck further to Haytham's attentions. The sudden coarseness was familiar territory, but it did nothing to shake Connor's lingering doubt that this was all simply a part of some Templar plot. And, even if it was, would it make any difference? Was he truly so desperate for his father's approval and affection he would allow this depravity to continue?

A hand snaked between his thighs, and Connor could not stopper the half-moan, half-whine that bubbled from his throat when fingers glanced over his growing erection.

Yes, he supposed, he was.

He dared to thread his free hand in his father's greying hair, tugging on the tie until it slipped free. If it were not for the Grand Master's heavy weight pinning him to the wall, he was certain he would topple over from exertion. "Father," he pleaded, feeling overwhelmed, "The bed. Please."

Haytham smirked against Connor’s throat upon hearing the breathless entreaty. Mindful of his still unsteady condition, he pulled Connor away from the wall and supported him over to the bed. Easing Connor down onto the mattress, Haytham’s gaze raked over his body. It was all too tempting to forget his greater plan for the boy and take him then and there, but he controlled himself with an effort. This was Connor’s first time; there would be no benefit to frightening him.

Instead he settled himself at the foot of the bed and tasked himself with untying the red sash Connor wore around his waist, drawing out his erection with one hand and giving it a few leisurely pumps. Lowering his head, he began to trace the length of it with his tongue, hands settling on the Assassin’s hips to hold him still. It had been quite a long time since he’d done this for anyone Haytham realised as he took the head of his son’s cock into his mouth and began to suck. No matter, it wasn’t as though Connor would be able to tell the difference.  
  
Connor fought to stay upright after he was carefully coaxed into a sitting position, but it quickly proved too much for him to handle. A sudden wave of light-headedness washed over him and he fell back onto the mattress with a quiet grunt.

The bed was comfortable— soft, springy and absolutely wonderful. Much better than anything he would have expected from a place such as Fort George. It was pure bliss to his stiff muscles, and Connor easily found himself caught up in the feel of down and blankets.

It was clear he had become preoccupied. Far too preoccupied to notice the hands deftly working at the ties of his breeches. It wasn't until his uncut cock was bared to the cool air of the room that Connor's attention abruptly veered back to what was going on around him. Trembling, he pushed himself up onto his elbows.

Haytham was between his splayed legs, looking as smug as ever. Connor couldn't even begin to guess what the man was planning before his erection was enveloped in wet heat. His body immediately bowed with a sharp cry, hands flying to the older man's dishevelled hair.

This was getting head, he thought with dim realisation.

He'd heard talk of it, in pubs, inns and even amongst his fellow Assassins, but never in his wildest imagination did he think it could be so good.

"H-Hayth-..." he attempted to call out to his father.

Haytham’s lips worked slowly down the hard length of him, drawing him further into his mouth. He took his time as he inched down the sensitive flesh, using his tongue to lap teasingly at the underside. Dragging his lips back up, he scraped along a prominent ridge with the slightest hint of teeth, relishing the increasingly desperate noises he began to drag from Connor’s lips, the fingers in his hair gripping more tightly.

There was an undeniable sense of power that came from having Connor at his mercy like this, Haytham thought distantly, his mouth finding a rhythm in which to move up and down the Assassin’s cock. Connor was wonderfully reactive, especially when he thrust his tongue into his slit, licking experimentally.

Moving back down, he carefully allowed Connor’s shaft entry down his throat and swallowed around him.

All thought process was wiped clean from his head when Haytham deigned to take him down his throat, and Connor had to bite his lip to swallow back the keening whine that threatened to escape. His hips bucked instinctively despite his best efforts, his toes curling in his moccasins. The heat, the unrelenting suction, the tightness... It was all too much.

Connor didn't know how much longer he could last. It had barely been minutes, but to the Assassin, it felt like an eternity. He was already teetering dangerously on the brink of orgasm. Dragging his fingers through Haytham's hair, Connor yanked gently, trying to warn him.

Haytham briefly considered pulling off as he felt the warning tug on his hair, but decided against it. This _was_ Connor’s first time and he saw little point in delaying the boy’s release for other activities. With that in mind he began to suck harder, tongue swirling languorously around him as he swallowed him back down, inviting him to come.

His fingers dug into Connor’s hips as he tightened his grip, holding him down firmly in anticipation. He had no desire to be choked by an overzealous thrust when the Assassin inevitably reached his climax.

Connor's tugs grew more frantic by the second, but the Templar either didn't notice or didn't care. At any rate, it soon became too late. With a strangled shout and a sharp jerk of his hips, the Assassin came down his father's throat.

All the nights spent alone in his room at the manor with nothing but his hand and a jar of oil seemed trivial compared to the mind-numbing pleasure Haytham had managed to bring him with his mouth alone.

He was a trembling, shaking mess once the bulk of the spasms had subsided, and Connor found himself mindlessly smoothing back Haytham's hair, unconsciously seeking out further touch in the afterglow of such a powerful orgasm. 

Haytham forced himself to swallow, grimacing slightly as he did so. Sitting up, he paused to regard his son. Connor looked deliciously wrecked, lying flushed and panting on the bed. Haytham felt his lips curve into a self-satisfied smirk. He moved closer, leaning down to draw Connor into a deep, lingering kiss and making him taste himself on his tongue. As he drew away, he noted with a possessive sort of pleasure that the marks he had left across Connor’s throat earlier still lingered.

“You’ve done so very well,” he murmured, raising one hand to gently thread fingers through Connor’s hair. Haytham was not usually one for easy praise but Connor had been almost puppyish in seeking approval earlier, and it wasn’t as though it cost Haytham anything. Especially if it helped bind him closer to him. He had not missed the way Connor had flinched from his harsh tone earlier; clearly the boy was in quite a fragile emotional state and would be especially susceptible to compliments.

A genuine smile blossomed across Connor’s face at the words of praise. There was a part of him, deep down, that knew he should be ashamed. What he'd just allowed his father to do was against the law of nature. It was sick, twisted and, moreover, punishable by death. Connor had loved every minute of it. Something had changed in the Grand Master in the last few days, and Connor was not wont to question it, far more content to simply bask in the affection doted on him. For who knew how long it would last.

Leaning into Haytham's touch, Connor turned his head to look at him, expression sated and slightly sleepy. He reached out to touch his shoulder and trailed his fingertips down the length of his father's body to brush against the front of his breeches. "What about you?" he inquired sincerely, his willingness to please showing plainly in his eyes.

Haytham held himself still as Connor’s hand traced along his body, but his eyes darkened at the Assassin’s words and at the tentative fingers against his own arousal. He’d have liked nothing more than to pin Connor down and take his own pleasure but the more rational part of his mind advised caution.

“I am not certain you are in any fit state to reciprocate,” he said quietly, letting his brow furrow in concern. “However,” he continued, noting the eagerness in Connor’s eyes and feeling his own desire flare in response, “it is your decision to make.”

Any concern he might have felt for his son did not stop him from tipping the scales further in his favour by leaning in close and purring “I won’t deny that I’d appreciate your assistance.”

"I am fine," Connor insisted and sidled closer. In fact, he was more than just 'fine;' he was elated. It no longer seemed to matter that he was being held against his will. And by the very man he was currently pressed against, no less. Connor would stay forever if it meant Haytham loving and doting on him as he had.

"I want to." Haytham had said he'd done well. It had filled him with a strong sense of satisfaction, but Connor yearned to do better. He wanted to make his father feel as good as he'd been made to feel.  
He dared to press an open-mouthed kiss to the underside of Haytham's jaw, touch becoming a touch more confident as he cupped the bulge in his trousers, squeezing gently then letting go. He clumsily worked at the laces with one hand, eventually succeeding in loosening them enough to slip his fingers inside. He drew Haytham's cock out carefully with a look akin to fascination. "Anything you want, father... I will do it."

Haytham blinked in surprise at Connor’s boldness but made no move to stop him. His breath caught at the touch of fingers against his aching flesh, and at the willingness to please clear in his voice. Heaven above, was Connor doing that on purpose? Could he know how arousing it was for Haytham, this eagerness, brightening his eyes and making his cheeks flushed?

“Very well,” he agreed calmly, voice husky with suppressed want. “Touch me as you would yourself. Use spit,” he added as an afterthought. Oil would have been more suitable but they would have to improvise.

Connor didn't need to be told twice. A small part of him had worried Haytham would desire his mouth as well. For all his enthusiasm and willingness to learn, he didn't think he could pull off something like fellatio so soon, and certainly not with the same degree of skill Haytham had employed. It was an art that required practise, or so he had overheard on a number of occasions. And his father was not a patient man. Connor would likely make a fool of himself.

But this...  _This_  he could do.

He spat in his hand until certain it was slippery enough not to chafe and lowered it to, once again, wrap his fingers around his father's hard flesh. He gave an experimental pump of his fist. It was hot and heavy; not at all like touching himself. Connor couldn't help but breathe a quiet groan at the thought.

Trying to recall those late nights back in his bed on the Homestead, the Assassin set a slow, languid rhythm, pausing every now and then to swipe his thumb across the swollen head.

Haytham groaned and let his head sink against a pillow as Connor began to stroke him, letting him see how much it was affecting him. The boy handled him with more skill than he had expected.

“So you _do_ pleasure yourself,” he breathed, laughing slightly. “You devil.”

If Haytham was being honest with himself, it wasn’t merely the physical contact that he was deriving such pleasure from, but also Connor’s enthusiasm in _wanting_ to please him. It was intoxicating, so much so that for a split second Haytham felt a twinge of guilt for having corrupted his son so thoroughly. It soon passed however, especially when Haytham pulled Connor down for a lazy kiss, arching into his calloused hand with a pleased sound.  
  
Connor flushed hot at the accurate assumption. "Occasionally," he mumbled just as he was dragged in for another kiss. Connor eagerly parted his lips to Haytham's tongue, a noise of satisfaction rumbling low in his throat. His father was, disappointingly, subdued in his pleasure, but the sounds he did make, the Assassin drank in with fervour.

Pulling away with a gasp, Connor mouthed along Haytham's stubbled jaw to suck at the skin of his neck, silently cursing the several layers of clothing barring him access from much else. He paused in his ministrations to spit in his hand once again, completely unconcerned by the lewdness of the act, and worked the slick fluid over his father's cock, beginning to stroke in earnest.

Growling, Haytham nevertheless tilted his head back further, reluctantly allowing Connor greater access to his throat. He pushed himself up briefly to see why Connor had stopped touching him, just in time to see him spit in his own palm again.  
  
“Filthy child,” Haytham muttered, not actually minding that much. He lay back down with a groan as Connor’s newly-slicked fingers began to work him once more, this time harder and with more confidence.  
“Faster,” he ordered breathlessly, impatiently lifting his hips to buck into Connor’s hand. He could feel heat building in his abdomen, pressure winding tight as his release grew inevitably closer. It wasn’t long before he spilled within his son’s fist with a gasp, hips jerking. Sinking back against the mattress he fought to regain his breath, sated and heavy-lidded.

If he hadn't already found his own release moments before, the Assassin was certain he'd be riled and aching to go again just from the image Haytham made as he came apart under his touch. Hot liquid spilled over his hand, and Connor stroked him through his orgasm, watching his father's face with an intense but unfocused gaze. It was difficult to compare the stoic man he'd come to associate Haytham with the one currently bucking and writhing against him.

When the Templar's hips eventually stilled, Connor released Haytham's spent cock and eyed the viscous, white fluid coating his fingers and knuckles. Inquisitively, he brought it up to his mouth to taste. It was bitter but not at all unpleasant, and Connor found himself licking further until nothing but spit-slicked skin remained. 

He tucked them both back into their trousers and looked at his recovering father with cheerful expectancy. "Was that adequate?" 

Haytham watched with growing incredulity as Connor licked his soiled hand clean, stunned into silence and wondering if the boy realised how suggestive the action was. Realising he’d been asked a question he hurriedly refocused his attention.  
“You’re better at that than I expected,” he admitted, adding dryly “you don’t have to look so smug about it. Come up here.” He moved so Connor could lie beside him, then turned to kiss him soundly, all lazy sated heat.

It was very tempting to linger for the rest of the day he thought, pulling Connor close and pressing his lips to his forehead. Reality soon sank in however as he remembered his neglected duties.  
In any case he was feeling far too fond of the Assassin he was holding to himself; it was a dangerous sentiment, one he couldn’t afford to foster. Reluctantly he began to pull away, allowing himself one last kiss before standing and ensuring his clothing was all back in order.  
“I must go,” he said regretfully, clapping Connor lightly on the shoulder.

That was... it? Connor watched with visible distress, looking very much like a kicked pup, as Haytham promptly stood and collected himself. After all that had transpired between them, after everything they'd said and done, he was going to leave? Just like that? With nothing more than a friendly clap on the shoulder and a 'job well done?' It was like nothing had even happened at all.

He'd been so certain he had finally succeeded in winning his father's affections...

"I... do not understand," Connor said softly and sat up on wavering limbs. "Why must you leave now? I thought-..." His voice faltered. He'd thought  _what_? That this would, somehow, change everything? "Did I not do well enough?"

Haytham had steeled himself in anticipation of some disappointment on Connor’s part but he couldn’t have predicted how incredibly _heartbroken_ the boy looked in that moment. He felt a strange pang in his heart and wondered if perhaps he couldn’t stay a bit longer.  
  
He gave himself a mental shake, annoyed at himself. It was far too risky, and besides Connor _was_ still his prisoner. The colder, more calculating part of his mind reasoned that despite the inevitable feelings of abandonment, Connor would probably come to crave his presence if he left him alone for a while, for absence makes the heart grow fonder or so goes the old adage. Naturally such feelings could easily backfire upon Haytham, as they already seemed to have begun to, but the Templar was certain he had better control over his own emotions than Connor did.  
  
Standing by the door now, he looked back at Connor, still reluctant to leave him as he was. “I will return to you,” he promised. “And as a sign of trust I’m going to leave your hands unbound, so I expect you’ll refrain from anything foolish. Do not disappoint me.”  
That said, he opened the door and was gone. 

The vague promise did very little to assuage Connor’s worries. Not even the freedom to move as he pleased was enough to calm the anxiety pooling in his gut. The last time Haytham had left him, alone and bound in the dark with only a doctor for company, it had been _days_  before he returned. Who's to say it wouldn't be longer this time around?

Connor stared at the heavy wooden door long after it had closed. He waited in silence, wishing it would open again, that Haytham had changed his mind, but as the minutes passed, there came a point when Connor had to admit to himself that his father was not coming back. Consumed by his insecurities, he lay back down, resting his head on the same pillow the Templar had occupied moments ago. He had neither the desire nor energy to do anything other than sleep. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor attempts an escape.

When Connor woke much later, it was to a splitting headache and a lingering feeling of loneliness. He didn't know where he was at first. The memories from earlier in the day were hazy and slow to return, but when they did, it was as if the world had come crashing down around him. What had he  _done_?

Filled with an intense anger and self-loathing, the Assassin fought to stand, stumbling over the forgotten tray of food and slamming into a nearby wall in his panic. He scrabbled at the stone and pulled himself upright, glancing around wildly. The room was dark save for the faint moonlight filtering in from the one small window. 

He had to get out. His hands were unbound; it was now or never. The doctor would surely be arriving within a few hours, and there would be no escape with a hefty dose of laudanum pumping through his veins. He looked at the window, determined. It would be quite the climb, one Connor wasn't sure he would be able to make in his current condition, and the window was small. He could only hope he would fit. But it was his only option. He had to try.

He ignored the pain in his head as felt for any leeway along the wall and finding several stones that protruded further than the rest. It was enough. It would have to be. 

He fell the first and second attempt, but by the third, he had found a reliable path to the window. Connor hooked a hand on its edge, scrambling to pull himself up.

  
Returning to his office, Haytham immersed himself back into planning the movements of his various agents. Without Connor to lead them, the Assassins were weak and Haytham had every intention of taking advantage of their current vulnerability in order to gain some ground. He also made sure to write a letter to the doctor treating Connor, politely suggesting he reduce his laudanum dosage as he would prefer his prisoner enjoy a greater degree of lucidity.  
  
The next day as he was returning correspondence to an agent in Boston he was interrupted by a guard knocking at the door. With many fearful apologies, the guard explained that one of the prisoners had gone missing.  
  
Expecting he already knew the answer, Haytham bit out “Which one?”  
  
“The big Native, sir,” the man replied, looking terrified.  
  
Haytham took a deep breath, blood practically thrumming with fury, coupled with a bitter twist of irony. How could he have been so _stupid_?  
Forcing himself to stay calm – it wouldn’t do to lose his composure in front of a subordinate – he said silkily “Then I hope for your sake that a search is being conducted at this very moment.” He couldn’t have gotten far; for all his determination Connor was still weak from his incarceration and drug intake from the past few days.  
  
He dismissed the guard and slumped back in his chair, infuriated with himself. What had he honestly expected, that Connor would sit patiently by in the hope that Haytham would deign to visit him again? Briefly the thought did occur to him that perhaps Connor would return of his own accord, tail between his legs, but he dismissed it almost immediately; one brief sexual encounter was not enough to inspire that kind of loyalty.  
  
Haytham was torn; most escape attempts were punished by breaking the offending prisoner’s legs to prevent it from happening again, but though he cursed his own softness he would really prefer to avoid damaging Connor any further. He couldn’t just let this slide however; he would need to think of an appropriate punishment.  
Obviously the Assassin would need to be caught before he came to any sort of decision.  
Haytham almost hoped he wouldn’t be. 

He’d made it. Connor was filthy and scratched and his head throbbed where the gun had made contact with his skull— but he’d made it. With the racket he had made climbing, or rather falling, down the wall, it was nothing short of a miracle he hadn’t been heard or spotted. He managed to stagger into a patch of overgrown brush just as a small group of Templar guards rounded a nearby corner. Connor watched them with his Eagle Vision, fighting to rein in his gasps for air.

They passed by, completely oblivious to the Assassin following their every move, and disappeared around another corner.

Connor crawled from out of the dense shrubbery, making for a similar group of bushes not far away. He needed to stay hidden. He would stand no chance against the Templars like this. He could barely stand and his weapons were still locked away in Fort George. If he could just make it into the city proper…

Stumbling, he collapsed in the mass of twigs and leaves. It was no use. He could not continue as he was; he had to rest.

No sooner had he allowed his head to fall back on the dirt then he heard a commotion in the distance. It sounded as though it was coming from inside the fort itself. Doors were slamming, dogs were barking, men were yelling. Connor’s heart hammered violently in his chest. Surely they hadn’t already discovered he was gone. He was certain he’d have more time.

_“You will comb every inch of this city until that man is found, do you understand me?”_

_“Sir!”_

Connor cursed vehemently in Kanien’kéha and dragged himself to his knees. They would find him if he stayed. He would be taken back to his cell, back to his father— his father, whose trust he had betrayed, his mind unhelpfully supplied with a pang of longing. Connor growled under his breath as he tried to stand. He refused to feel guilty. Haytham had held him prisoner, had taken advantage of him when he was at his most vulnerable. He owed him  _nothing_.

So wrapped up was he in his own thoughts, the handful of soldiers approaching his hiding spot went entirely unnoticed until the barrel of a gun was pressed to the back of his head. Connor froze, hands clenched in dry soil, arms shaking with the strain of holding his weight. How had they-…? When had they-…? He clenched his eyes shut in angry resignation. He had failed, but he had no wish to die at the hands of these men. His escape would come; only not that night.

Connor put up a weak fight as he was pulled, kicking and snarling, from the tall shrubs, yet he was easily overpowered and brought back to the fort.

  
As much as he tried to return his attention to his letter, Haytham’s mind continued to wander in a frustrating circle of anger, worry and regret. Admitting defeat, he set his quill aside and rose to stare out his window, wondering how far Connor could have gone. It had been some time since his escape had been reported; surely the guards had found him by now?  
  
His question was answered by a knock at the door. The guard from earlier was back.  
“The prisoner is secured, sir,” he said deferentially.  
  
Haytham thanked him, waiting until he had left before sinking back into his chair with a sigh. So Connor was once again in his custody.  
  
It was not often that Haytham was met with a problem that had no clear solution, and he didn’t enjoy it one bit. Was it best to punish the boy or show leniency? He hated the thought of appearing weak, but perhaps in this case showing mercy would be to his advantage. No doubt Connor was expecting harsh discipline, would he not be grateful if Haytham showed him forgiveness instead?  
Besides Haytham couldn’t really blame Connor, for it was his own carelessness that had allowed him to escape in the first place.  
  
Mind made up, Haytham headed over to where the Assassin was once again locked up. They’d returned him to the room with the bed, but as Haytham was admitted through the door he was pleased to see that the boy’s wrists were once again tightly bound.  
  
“So,” he began, unable to resist the urge to be a little snide. “Did you enjoy your little excursion?” Softening his tone, he continued, “Good God boy, if you were so desperate for some fresh air you need have only said so. You’re in no fit state to make any viable escape attempts.”  
He moved closer and stopped just out of reach, doubting Connor wanted him particularly close at that moment. “Are you hurt?” he asked quietly.

"No," Connor snapped petulantly when asked if he was harmed. He was sore from his many falls, bruised and bleeding in several spots as well as utterly exhausted, but he would rather suffer in silence, salvaging what was left of his wounded pride, than admit he was injured to a man like his father.

Back pressed firmly against the wall, he watched Haytham with wary, narrowed eyes, appearing very much like a cornered wild animal. Just his presence alone was enough to bring back memories from the previous day. Heat, spread legs, slick hands, loving caresses, his father's face as he came-... Connor flushed red with hate, shame and want. What was Haytham playing at? 

He hadn't expected to be brought back to the same room he had tried to escape from. The Templars were not known for their mercy. Connor had fully anticipated being thrown into the pitch-black cell he'd first been housed in, if not outright beaten and crippled for his transgressions. Instead, he'd simply been bound and left on the floor. Now Haytham was berating him like a lost child? Wanting know if he was hurt? It didn't make any sense.

"You are growing soft," he taunted weakly.

Haytham’s lip curled at the accusation but he let it slide. “Would you prefer the alternative?” he asked curiously, crouching to get a better look at Connor. “That I call in some of my men and they break enough of your bones to render any future attempts impossible?” He sighed. “I _had_ rather hoped we were past all that. Listen, what you fail to realise is that I do intend to free you once you have recovered. It is not my wish to see you wither and die in here. What I need from you is your trust. Obviously I understand it will not be easy for you given the circumstances, but whether you believe me or not I do not intend to harm you.”

Haytham looked away uneasily. “I... care about you,” he admitted quietly. “Far more than I should. I hope you will come to see that.”  
Like most things he said, it was intended to manipulate but to Haytham’s discomfort he found the admission was not exactly a lie.

Connor almost wanted to say yes, that he  _did_  prefer the alternative. At least then some things would start to make sense. He understood pain and punishment. But these promises of care and trust, he did not, and they unnerved him far more than the threat of broken skin or bones ever could.

"I believe you made your _'care'_  very clear, father," he muttered bitterly, referring to their earlier tryst. The memory would just not let him be. He could not even look at Haytham without being overcome by a myriad of powerful emotions, some of which he did not wish to dwell upon. "I do not know what it is you are planning nor do I know what it is you want from me, but I will have no part of it."

Haytham scowled. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy yourself.” He refused to apologise for having seduced his son, though the memory of it had begun to leave him with unsettling feelings of guilt. Worse was the fact that even now Haytham was tempted by the thought of initiating further intimacy, though he knew any such attempts would be harshly refused.  
Connor was a man of fierce morals, and probably felt only regret and disgust at what had happened, both with Haytham and with himself. Unless...  
Connor _had_ likedit at the time, Haytham was certain. Obviously his guard was up now, but perhaps similar future encounters were not completely off the table after all. He would have to watch and wait. It wasn’t as if Connor was going anywhere.  
  
He found that he was smirking slightly. “We shall see.”  
The Assassin couldn’t hate him forever.

The glare Connor gave Haytham could have melted steel. "I was not in my right mind." It was the closest he would come to admitting he'd enjoyed what happened between them. "I would have found anyone appealing." It was a poor justification for his actions in addition to being a lie. As hazy as his memories of that day were, Connor knew it was _because_  of who he was that Haytham had been able to slip past his shattered defences. He could not deny that, ever since they'd first met in that abandoned church, a small part of him grew to desire his father's love and respect. The feeling was severely crippled after he'd witnessed, first-hand, the ruthlessness with which Haytham operated. A man that murdered innocent people, schemed and kept secrets was not a man Connor wanted in his life. And yet, the feeling persisted. His drugged self had merely taken what the sober could not. In any way it could.

It was a reality that bothered him greatly.

"I will find another way out."

Connor’s words stung. Haytham didn’t want to believe him – surely he’d have realised if the boy _had_ been that inebriated – but a sliver of self-doubt lingered all the same. Haytham knew he was a ruthless man; it was an aspect of himself that he’d deliberately cultivated after all, recently even to the point of brutality, but he was not a rapist.  
Was he?  
He wanted to believe Connor could easily have resisted if he had wanted to but now he wasn’t so sure. It troubled him, uncertainty creating a pit in his stomach. He suddenly felt ill. His earlier thoughts surrounding the Assassin were swiftly banished from his mind; it was for the best that he did not think of his son in such a way again. And yet he didn’t want to let him go.  
“I don’t believe you,” he stated coldly, standing. “On both counts. You will not escape, even if I have to watch you myself.” He paused before adding delicately “For your sake I hope it will not be necessary.” If Connor _had_ been as intoxicated as he claimed, Haytham expected he was feeling taken advantage of and used. If so it was doubtful he’d want his abuser anywhere near him.

Connor's expression twisted into one of dismay at the thinly-veiled threat. The part of him that lingered from their previous encounter wondered if being guarded by Haytham would truly be  _that_ terrible. He had spent enough time alone to realise his father's company was better than none at all...

The Assassin was quick to push the temptation away.

In this room, there was always the slim chance he might find a way to free himself from his bonds. Even though it might take several days to recuperate, he was alone and the opportunity to escape was there. With Haytham, however... the odds of a second attempt were almost non-existent.

Yet this could be his one and only chance to gather Templar information from the source itself. Haytham wanted his trust, or so he had said. What would he reveal were he to believe he had that trust? A lot, Connor imagined.

"Then I will escape while you sleep," Connor baited, mind made up. It was for the Brotherhood. "You cannot stop me, old man."

Haytham smiled thinly, pleased despite everything that Connor was regaining his spirit. “Then you leave me no choice,” he said mildly.  
The more he thought about it, the better a solution it seemed to be. This way he could make sure Connor couldn’t get himself into any more trouble, and Haytham could set his own mind at ease by keeping an eye on him. He was beginning to wonder if it was too late to ever earn his son’s trust but he had to try.   
  
Usually Haytham enjoyed complicated situations, relished the challenge they provided. He was uncomfortably aware that somewhere along the way he seemed to have lost control of this one, his own base emotions obstructing what should have been a simple interrogation. He’d tried to be too clever for his own good and as a result his mind was consumed by a confusing mix of worry, regret and misplaced affection that was in direct opposition to his original Templar agenda.  
  
“I’m assuming you’re still too weak to walk,” he said, eyeing Connor’s slumped form. Walking to the door and opening it, he gestured to two guards. “Have him brought up to my office,” he ordered, indicating Connor.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Haytham reach an understanding.

When Connor had opted to play along with Haytham's bid to win his trust rather than escape, he hadn't anticipated being locked in a study for hours on end while said man pored over letters, books and other paperwork. Did the Templar Grand Master truly do nothing else? After the sixth day, Connor was beginning to believe that, no, he didn't.

He was becoming restless. His strength had returned gradually, but he found he had little use for it once it did despite the fact he'd been given— relatively— free reign of the room. Except for during meals and an occasional, awkward bath, Haytham had yet to release him from his bindings. It hampered his movement and restricted his already limited choice of activities. As a result, much of his time was typically spent pacing or staring out the window, hoping to garner what small amount of intelligence he could from the going ons of the fort, as well as talking to his father about inane topics. The monotony was causing his guard to slip.

He'd been curious at first. The Grand Master's office and bedroom were not places an Assassin would easily find themselves. The moment he could stand, he'd investigated. He tried asking questions, if not to further his new mission then purely to sate his curiosity, but they were often met with a 'never you mind' or ignored altogether, and what information he  _did_  manage to gather was either useless or trivial. Haytham was making this difficult.

"When do you plan on retiring?" he asked from his usual place by the window. "It is well past sundown and I am  _bored_."

Haytham snorted derisively, not bothering to look up. “I wasn’t aware that keeping you entertained was my responsibility,” he said dryly.

The two of them had fallen back into their old pattern of antagonistic banter, finding it easier to ignore recent events and carry on as though they had never happened than openly acknowledge them.

While Haytham had shown little tolerance for Connor’s habit of pestering him with inane questions, he was privately relieved to see the Assassin acting more like himself.

Unfortunately, being alone in the room with Connor for hours on end was proving very distracting, even when he buried himself in work. He’d find his attention wandering, gaze settling covertly on his son as he gazed restlessly out the window and remember the way he had touched him, the willingness to please bright in his eyes.

It was maddening, inappropriate and highly inconvenient, not to mention utterly immoral. Haytham hadn’t cared then but now each time he caught himself dwelling on such thoughts, his throat would tighten and he’d feel sick with guilt.

And yet, he hungered. As winter approached and the nights turned crisper, he’d even considered taking Connor to bed – for the warmth his traitorous mind urged slyly – but he’d hurriedly dismissed the thought. Idly Haytham supposed he deserved this frustration he seemed to have cursed himself with. In a perverse sort of way it was a rather fitting punishment.

Staring at the page in front of him, Haytham realised his candle had burned down too low to see the text. Perhaps it _was_ time to retire. He rose to his feet, rubbing tiredly at his stiff shoulders. “Come on then,” he ordered quietly, making sure Connor was following before leading him to his bedroom.

It had been strange having Connor in his room the first few nights, but he was reassured by the knowledge that his movement was too impeded to offer any real threat, and besides Haytham had always been a light sleeper.

Connor followed dutifully, grateful to be out of the office and its stuffy, dull environment. Haytham's personal quarters were hardly any better, but at least there, he could sleep without feeling as though he were missing something important. He'd already combed the room from floor to ceiling while his father slept, silently pilfering drawers as best he could, scouring bookshelves, and rummaging through chests. Several times, even. He left no stone unturned.

Apart from a few brief letters from a woman named Jennifer, the place was disappointingly devoid of useful information. Connor had to hand it to Haytham. He'd been quite thorough.

There was a small fire smouldering in the hearth upon their arrival, courtesy of one of the fort's many servants no doubt. Snow had not yet fallen, but the climate was quickly becoming frigid and Connor was thankful for the temporary warmth.

Without waiting for permission to enter, Connor shuffled over to his bedroll by the fireplace. It was nothing like his bed back on the Homestead or the one he'd been given in the tower, but it would do. He had certainly slept on much worse during his travels, and besides, he was far too proud to ask for something better. Sitting down with a quiet grunt, Connor allowed himself a moment to soak in the heat of the fire as he watched Haytham go about his nightly routine.

"It is odd to see you like this," he said. He'd spent so long viewing his father as Grand Master of the Colonial Rite, it was easy to forget Haytham was still human, with human traits and human habits. And human desires, Connor thought with embarrassed shame.

Haytham paused to glance curiously at Connor. “Like what?” he asked lightly as he began to undress for bed. He found that he honestly wished to know how Connor perceived him. He suspected that the Assassin no longer saw him as a real threat, and while once the thought would have rankled, now he found that it didn’t particularly bother him. It was a refreshing change from the behaviour of his subordinates, so easily cowed by a sharp word or glance.  Not for the first time, Haytham wondered what their relationship would have been like had they not found themselves on opposite sides of the ancient Assassin/Templar struggle. As always he dismissed the thought impatiently. There was little use dwelling on what-ifs. Despite their unfortunate circumstances, ie. Connor’s continued imprisonment, they had managed to arrive at something loosely resembling a truce. For now. Haytham knew the peace couldn’t last.

"Like  _this_ ," Connor repeated with mild exasperation. He'd spent enough time in Haytham's presence to recognise when he was being goaded. The more unyielding part of his personality wished to end the conversation right then and there, but his mission depended entirely on Haytham's cooperation. Bullheaded stubbornness would get him nowhere. He had to be open if he wanted any chance of gaining his father's trust.

He shifted uncomfortably on his bedroll, finding it hard not to stare while Haytham changed into his nightclothes. As much as he would have liked to believe otherwise, Connor knew better than to try and convince himself it was out of simple curiosity. At first, he assumed the drugs had done lasting damage that he would still think of his father in such a manner, but it soon became clear it was his own perverted nature that was at fault. And though he tried to keep the shameful secret under lock and key, memories of that day a week ago still managed to worm its way into his thoughts and dreams.

"It is difficult to describe. You are-..." he paused as if searching for the right words, brow wrinkling, "... not as threatening."

Haytham scoffed in mock offense. “How dare you,” he quipped, smirking slightly.  He was rather pleased to hear the admission from Connor’s own lips. Surely it was a step in the right direction. Looking back over at the Assassin, he was just in time to see Connor hurriedly avert his gaze. Strange. Well as long as they were having an actual conversation...

“Connor,” Haytham began seriously, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “As much as I had preferred to pretend it had never occurred, I think we should discuss the... _incident_ that happened last week.” It was always going to hang over them, they may as well address it directly.  
“It was terribly wrong of me to have taken advantage of you in such a state,” Haytham continued bitterly. “While I understand you may never be able to forgive me, I still want you to know how deeply I regret having done such a thing. I-” he faltered, jaw clenching as he fell silent. There was a heavy pause, the quiet punctuated by the crackling fireplace. “I apologise,” he said at last, with difficulty.

Was that... an apology? A genuine apology? From his  _father_? Were it not for the incredulity of it, Connor would have believed he'd misheard.

He looked at Haytham, searching, attempting to gauge what he might be thinking. Much to Connor's amazement, he appeared to truly regret what had been done. He knew Haytham to be a devious man as well as a skilled liar, but this— this felt different.

Guilt bubbled up inside him, and Connor began to wonder if perhaps he owed his father the truth. "I am afraid I have not been completely honest with you," he admitted quietly. "After my escape, I told you I was not in my right mind when you-... when you-..." He trailed off, dark cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of scarlet. "It was not true. I remember much of what happened. I could have stopped you." He twisted his wrists anxiously in the ropes around them. "But I did not want to."

Haytham looked up sharply, eyes widening in disbelief. “You could not have known what you wanted,” he argued. “You were drugged - your judgement was heavily impaired. A fact that I knowingly took advantage of.”

Haytham took a deep breath, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “I just wanted to assure you that I will never do anything of that nature to you again,” he said quietly. “It was... beyond wrong.” Having said what he wanted to say, Haytham rose to his feet to climb into bed, pulling his blankets tightly around himself. He expected nothing from Connor, no words of acceptance or forgiveness. He just needed him to know how sorry he was, how much he regretted it.

He had never thought of himself as an exceptionally good man, but neither was he entirely heartless. He hoped Connor would come to see that in time.

Connor bristled at having his admission dismissed so thoroughly. When it became apparent Haytham was not going to say anything else on the matter, Connor slowly scrambled to his feet, using the wall as leverage. He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath as he forced himself to take the few short steps over to the room's one bed. He stared down at his father's blanketed form, lips pressed in a grim line and eyes filled with stubborn determination. If he didn't know any better, Connor would have said Haytham was ignoring him and, by extension, ignoring the problem. "And how would you know what it is that I want?" he demanded, wholly wishing he had the use of his hands so he could pull Haytham out from under the covers and force him to look him in the face. "I have spent  _days_  wrestling with these feelings you have imparted on me. The very least you could do is believe me when I tell you  _I wanted it_." 

As much as Haytham would have liked to ignore the Assassin looming over his bed, Connor’s words made it impossible to hold his tongue.

“You wanted it,” he repeated flatly, sitting up and facing him. “You wanted me - your own father - to ...-” he broke off, cursing under his breath and looking away.  
Remembering the rest of Connor’s words, a strange thought occurred to him. “These... feelings of yours,” he prompted, struck with a twisted sort of fascination. “Do you still have them?” He knew he should keep silent, put a halt to this conversation immediately, but he felt like he needed to know. _What difference does it make?_ his mind protested. It was not as though it could ever happen again. Even if Connor wanted it to – Haytham forcibly stopped that thought in its tracks, trying to ignore the memories it conjured even as they stirred his blood. “Don’t answer that,” he growled. “Go to sleep.”

" _No_ ," Connor snarled back, glaring accusing daggers at Haytham, growing increasingly irritated by his attempts to end their discussion. "You were the one who wished to have this conversation,  _father_ , and we are going to have it." Fists clenched behind his back, the Assassin agitatedly paced the length of the bed several times before stalking over to stand in front of the glowing fireplace. He let the heat of the flames wash over him, comforting him, and slowly, the anger began to ebb. 

"I know it is wrong," he eventually said, voice hard but no less confused, "You are my father. And a Templar. I should not feel like this." He should not crave the way Haytham held him, should not dream about his lips warm over his own, should not lust after his touch. He should not want to be  _loved_  by this man. But he did. 

"I do not know what is wrong with me."

There was a pause as Haytham tried to formulate an appropriate response, his heart skipping a beat at Connor’s confession. Realising he was not going to be able to sleep until some kind of resolution was reached, he sighed and climbed out of bed to face Connor properly.

“So even now you still...” he trailed off, not quite able to believe it. Looking at Connor, illuminated by the light of the dying fire, he wondered what would happen if he were to kiss him. It seemed that they both desired each other, what would be the harm in it? Except that that was exactly the sort of thinking that had gotten them into this mess in the first place, Haytham reminded himself sharply. This past week had set them on the right track in terms of reaching an understanding; it was not worth jeopardising for the sake of his base urges. Still, he could not deny that he was tempted. He moved closer, slowly so as to not appear threatening. “What is wrong with us _both_?” he breathed.

Shoulders hunched defensively, Connor passed a sidelong glance at the Templar next to him. Memories from that day flooded his mind in rapid bursts, and his cheeks burned with hot shame. "You still want it as well," he mumbled finally, more of a statement than a question, and his gaze dropped to the floor. Every instinct in him to him to run while he still could. He had gone his entire life believing his father resented his very existence and merely tolerated him only if it benefited his own interests, a belief that had been firmly cemented during their hunt for Church. This would surely be no different. Haytham would take what he desired and Connor would be left to pick up what remained of his shattered heart. This could only end in pain, humiliation and suffering. He'd already experienced enough of all three in his lifetime to willingly invite more.

And yet, despite the heavy risks, he couldn't say 'no.' Couldn't deny what he so obviously wanted.

He couldn't look Haytham in the eye as he stiffly muttered, "Kiss me before I change my mind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up soon, we promise!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Haytham give in at last.

Connor’s words were his undoing. Without pausing to think, Haytham closed the distance between the two of them, using one hand to tilt Connor’s head back so he could capture his mouth with his own. Despite having agonised over the immorality of it for days now, he couldn’t deny the sweet rush of relief he felt at finally surrendering to his desire for the Assassin. With a soft groan he deepened the kiss, licking hungrily into Connor’s mouth.

An unexpected edge of desperation rose in him, urging him to press closer to Connor, wanting to feel more of him. Connor’s body was firm and warm against his, and he relished the contact, the closeness.

Drawing back to breathe, Haytham remembered belatedly that Connor’s limbs were still bound. He _wanted_ to untie him, preferred Connor be allowed a greater freedom of movement, but he hadn’t forgotten what had happened the last time he had left him unrestrained.

He hesitated, undecided.  As much as he’d like to trust Connor, or at least the lust darkening his eyes, was this not precisely the sort of opportunity the boy had been waiting for?  
“What will you do if I untie you?” he murmured, kissing his jaw.

Connor's eyes fluttered open upon being questioned— when had he shut them?— and he stared, unseeing, up at the vaulted ceiling, unwittingly baring his throat further to Haytham's attentions. At one point in time, he might have desired escape. However, that was before he'd decided to take advantage of his imprisonment and uncover more about the Order's inner workings, before he discovered what it was like to be wanted so thoroughly.

Haytham could untie him, but Connor would not leave. In his efforts to keep his immoral desires at bay, he'd only succeeded in becoming attached to the very person he tried to push away. He had already dug his own grave, and now he would lie in it. The consequences of this horrible decision could wait; he just wanted to  _feel_.

"I will do nothing you do not wish for me to," he promised, fingers itching to grasp, to touch, to hold. "Let me touch you, father."

“Good boy,” Haytham whispered approvingly, satisfied with his earnest tone. He tugged Connor gently forward, away from the fire so he had enough room to step behind him and untie the rope binding his wrists. Bending down, he swiftly freed his legs as well. He straightened, pulling Connor flush against him once more and kissing him firmly on the mouth before moving down the line of his jaw to his throat. 

Now that his careful restraint with regards to his own desires had been shattered, he wanted all of Connor, wanted his skin bare beneath his touch as cries of pleasure were dragged from his throat. Still, the fact that he was able to merely kiss him at all was not lost on him, and he revelled in being allowed even such simple touches. Haytham’s teeth scraped along Connor’s pulse, feeling an unexpected surge of possessiveness rise in him, though he carefully soothed the mark with his lips pressed gently to the bruised skin.

An unbidden rush of satisfaction filled Connor at the praise. His shoulders were sore and his muscles stiff, but Connor ignored the discomfort, instead taking the opportunity to wrap an arm around Haytham's shoulders, hand tangling in his hair.

A particularly hard bite caused him to wince, but the sting was quickly erased with laves and kisses. Connor groaned softly, desire pooling in his groin. He pulled away hastily, shrugging off his coat. He'd been loath to part with the clothing that tied him to the Brotherhood. It was something he was proud of but now it seemed irrelevant, and Connor let the coat drop to the floor. He peeled away his gloves and loosened his sash, unbuckled his belt and hastily unbuttoned his shirt. They all fell to the floor.

Connor tugged his father in for another desperate kiss, fingers fisted in the thin fabric of his nightshirt. "Off," he demanded breathlessly in between kisses.

Haytham watched hungrily as Connor shed his various layers, revealing more and more toned bronze skin. He made a soft amused noise at Connor’s imperious command against his mouth but obeyed nonetheless, pulling his nightshirt swiftly over his head. This time when they pressed against each other it was skin against skin, and so much better for it.

His son was a solid wall of heat against him, a stark contrast to the chilled air. He could feel Connor’s arousal where it was pressed against him between their bodies - the knowledge that the younger man was consumed with the same desperate lust as Haytham himself sent thrills down his spine, inflaming his blood further.

“Bed,” Haytham decided, pulling Connor along with him as he settled on top of the mattress. Connor’s skin was all wicked friction against his as he climbed astride his waist, his own erection brushing a firm thigh and making him exhale sharply. Using his weight to pin the Assassin against the mattress, his mouth descended upon his chest, teasing a nipple between his teeth.  
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he ordered, voice low and husky. If they were going to do this, he wanted to be sure it was because they both wanted it.

Connor nodded, the movement barely more than a slight jerk of his chin, and let his head fall back on the bed with a hissed moan as Haytham swooped in upon his chest like a hungry beast. It was unexpected— Connor had not even been aware this was something people  _did_  while in bed together— but it was certainly not unwanted. Each scrape of teeth and swipe of tongue sent liquid fire coursing through his veins, further igniting his lust until he had no choice but to give into the urge to grind up against his father's hips.

He wondered what else he didn't know.

He grasped mindlessly at Haytham's bare back, fingers dragging across smooth skin before, once again, gravitating toward greying strands. "What you did to me before," he said lowly, "I want to try."

Haytham raised his head to look at Connor in surprise. He had never expected... and yet he couldn’t help but warm to the idea, his cock twitching in approval.  
“If you’re certain...” he trailed off, his mind already considering the most suitable position. Easing himself up from on top of Connor, he moved to the side and sprawled out on his back in the space next to him. “Carry on then,” he murmured lazily, drawing his son closer encouragingly.

Connor sat back on his heels, erection straining against the fabric of his trousers. He took in his father's form lying supine on the bed, gaze raking across the length of his body to land, smouldering, on his hard cock. Connor swallowed thickly. "Not bad for an old man," he teased and settled down between Haytham's thighs. Nervousness threatened to creep up on him, but it was hastily shoved away. He could do this. He  _wanted_  to do this.

The Assassin eyed Haytham's cock curiously before hesitantly reaching out to take it in hand. The first lick was tentative, no more than a brief flick of tongue; the second was as well. By the third, he had grown slightly more emboldened, and he tried to recall what Haytham had done when their positions had been reversed. Pressing several messy kisses to the underside, Connor worked his way up the shaft, laving the swollen head then taking it into his mouth. 

Haytham snorted softly, amused by Connor’s rather backhanded compliment. He waited patiently, allowing the Assassin time to get comfortable then sighed as he felt the first few shy laps of his tongue. As his son grew more brazen, Haytham’s arm stretched out to tangle fingers in his hair, a gasp escaping him as lips wrapped tentatively around his head.  
“Take your time,” he said gently. “And be sure to mind your teeth.”  
Despite his nerves and inexperience, Connor’s mouth was delightfully hot and wet around him, and Haytham was content to take as much as he was willing to give. 

Connor sucked languidly, trying to remain cautious of his teeth as Haytham had warned. The last thing he wanted to do in that moment was unintentionally cause his father pain.

Pulling away with a wet 'pop,' he dragged his tongue down the length of Haytham's erection then back up again. He shamelessly lapped away the bead of precome that had formed and drew the head into his mouth once more. Brows drawn together in concentration, he ventured to take more, desperate to please, but he was impatient. The tip of Haytham's cock hit the back of his throat and Connor suddenly withdrew, coughing and spluttering. His expression was sheepish after the fit subsided, but his determination far outweighed his embarrassment, and he was soon back for more.

Connor’s inexperience was more than made up for by his willingness to learn. The sight of him alone was enough to fray Haytham’s tightly-knit control, his tongue licking obscene stripes along his shaft as though hungry for the taste of him. Haytham’s eyes slid shut as he was once again taken into Connor’s mouth, a groan of pleasure torn from his throat at the sensation of slick, sinful heat. He had to fight the urge to thrust up further into his mouth, wanting more of him, though it seemed he was not the only impatient one as Connor tried to take too much of him at once, only to choke himself in the process.

“I told you to take your time,” Haytham chuckled as Connor pulled off to breathe, unable to resist the urge to be a little smug. His fingers were soothing where they carded through Connor’s hair however.  
Haytham was half-expecting Connor to give up and save such endeavours for another time, so he was surprised and a little impressed as the boy instead seemed to accept the challenge put before him. He supposed he should have expected no less; when the Assassin set his mind to something, he was unwavering in his resolve.

Connor ignored the jibe, too preoccupied by the feel of hot flesh against his tongue to listen to his father's teasing 'I-told-you-sos.' He petted Haytham's trembling hips as he worked his lips down his shaft. This time, when the urge to gag arose, Connor was prepared. Breathing raggedly through his nose, he forced the muscles of his throat to relax, holding completely still until he no longer felt as if he would choke. Although he couldn't begin to take the entirety of the Templar's impressive length, he was pleased he'd managed as well as he had.

He swallowed wetly, Haytham's cock a heavy weight in his throat, and pulled up just enough to plunge back down again. His throat convulsed and Connor stuttered, nostrils flaring with the struggle to breathe. He waited for the discomfort to pass before trying again, dragging his tongue along the underside as he gave a few testing dips of his head. It was messy, noisy as well as severely lacking in skill, but eventually, he was able to slip into an uneven rhythm.

“ _God_ ,” Haytham gasped raggedly, his composure fracturing as Connor took him deeper down his throat and swallowed around him. His fingers tightened their grip in his son’s hair, his initial disbelief at Connor’s audacity giving way to waves of pleasure.

Soon Connor had found some sort of rhythm, mouth dragging up and down Haytham’s length. Haytham panted, the hand not tangled in Connor’s hair trying to find purchase against the bedsheets. He gripped the edge of the mattress tightly to try and anchor himself as his head sank back against his pillow. Connor’s technique was imperfect but he was learning fast, eager to please, and that in itself was impossibly arousing. With practice...- Haytham’s thoughts were halted as Connor gave him a particularly hard suck. He could feel his release building in his abdomen; he was much closer than he’d realised.

“Connor,” Haytham warned breathlessly, giving Connor’s hair an insistent tug. 

Connor considered ignoring the gasped warning. The thought of Haytham spilling on his tongue was an appealing one, but Connor wasn't fool enough not to know the refractory period of older men was considerably longer than his own. He did not wish for this to be over so soon after it had started.

Connor withdrew leisurely, pausing to the suck at the tip, before parting altogether. He licked at his swollen lips and smirked, pleased with himself, looking every bit like a cat that had gotten into the cream. There was a small amount of pain— Connor's throat would definitely be sore come later— but it was worth it to hear the strangled sounds of pleasure Haytham had made.

Nuzzling briefly at his father's twitching cock, Connor then crawled up to press affectionate kisses to the underside of Haytham's jaw.

Haytham couldn’t prevent a small frustrated noise from escaping him as Connor removed his mouth. He lay still, taking a moment to catch his breath and try to control his desperate state of arousal. Seeing Connor’s smug look, his lips slick with Haytham’s precome definitely didn’t help matters.

The Templar groaned, his eyes closing as Connor nosed teasingly at his erection, baring his throat further as he heard him shift closer and felt his lips on his jaw. He passively accepted the touches until his breathing was somewhat regular again, then intercepted Connor’s mouth with his own, tasting himself as his tongue traced the Assassin’s lips. Feeling greedy, he reached up to rest one possessive hand on the back of Connor’s neck, holding him close as the kiss turned more heated.  
“Take these off,” he ordered, his free hand reaching down to pull at the waist of Connor’s trousers. He wanted as much of the younger man available to him as possible.

Heat shot straight to his groin at the order, and Connor wasted no time in rolling off the mattress to comply. He hastily tugged off his moccasins and slipped out of his leggings. His trousers went next, followed by his drawers. The Assassin breathed a soft moan when his erection was released from its confines.

The room was growing increasingly chillier, but the bite of cold was barely noticeable as he rejoined his father on the bed.

For several seconds, it appeared as if he didn't know what to do. He understood the basics of intercourse and procreation— of course he did. But Haytham was not a woman; he was a man, like himself, and his father at that. None of what he'd been taught would help him now. Connor wasn't even entirely certain how sex between two men  _worked_  much less how to proceed with it.

He eventually settled on leaning down for another kiss, too proud to admit he had no idea what he was doing.

Haytham smiled slightly at Connor’s hesitance, kissing him reassuringly.

“Stay here,” he commanded softly, moving off the bed and walking to his dresser. Pulling a drawer open he withdrew a glass bottle of oil that he used to maintain his weapons and brought it with him back over to the bed.

“I don’t expect you know how this works between two men, do you,” he mused rhetorically, seating himself by Connor. “No matter, it’s not particularly complicated.” Setting the bottle in his hand to one side for the moment, his fingers brushed Connor’s flank, dancing idly along his hipbone before moving around to stroke down his lower back. He stopped at his tailbone, deciding it was probably best to explain before actually attempting anything.

“This is going to seem odd at first,” he warned, “but I shan’t do anything to hurt you.” His fingers lightly skimmed the curve of Connor’s rear before pressing ever so lightly between his cheeks, just far enough that he could trace his sphincter with a careful fingertip.  
“This is where I will enter you,” he explained, circling the rim, “though not without preparing you with my fingers first. That’s what the oil is for, it will help to stretch you and ease my passage.”  
He withdrew his finger, looking at Connor calmly. “Any objections?” he asked.

Connor's expression alternated between apprehension and intrigued confusion. He... supposed it made sense, although how _that_ could possibly fit  _there_  he couldn't begin to imagine. Haytham was not a small man by any means. No matter how much oil was used or prepping was done, Connor couldn't fathom how such an act could be anything other than painful and unpleasant. Nevertheless, he slowly shook his head 'no.'

Lying back on the bed, Connor fixed Haytham with a wary stare despite his apparent arousal. "You have done this before?" he asked quietly. 

“I have,” Haytham confirmed evasively, pushing away memories of his deceased friend Jim Holden and the associated feelings of old grief. “Though admittedly not for quite some time. I will be careful but if it becomes too much for you, you need only say so.”

Satisfied that Connor didn’t look _too_ apprehensive, Haytham retrieved the bottle and uncorked it, dousing his fingers generously with oil. Repeating his actions from earlier he eased in one finger, pushing gently into Connor’s entrance. He took his time - pausing every so often to let Connor adjust - until his finger was able to slide all the way in without a hitch. Distracting Connor with kisses and murmured encouragement, he did the same with a second finger, then a third, repeating the process until the three digits were as far inside as possible.

Connor was hot and tight around his fingers, slippery with oil. Haytham’s body was growing impatient, longing to be inside him, but he was determined to make Connor’s comfort and pleasure his priority so for now he resolutely ignored his own urges.

“Be at ease,” he advised warmly, curling his fingers in search of the boy’s prostate. “Relax your muscles a bit or you’ll be much too tight.” He teased his son with a few more strokes of his fingers, then slowly withdrew them. Picking up the oil again, he slicked up his erection and lined himself up. His earlier desire had returned in full force, heating his blood as he considered what he was about to do.  
“Are you ready?” he asked, voice low and rough.

Connor took the first two fingers with relative ease. Apart from a faint ache and a general sense of invasiveness, there was no discomfort, and he was just starting to believe all his worries were for nothing when a third finger was guided in to join the others. Jerking uncomfortably, muscles taut, Connor couldn’t hold back the pained groan that escaped his throat. Spirits above, it  _burned_.

It was only his father’s whispered words of encouragement and gentle kisses that kept him from demanding their removal. The man’s patience was limitless, something Connor was incredibly thankful for as he fought to relax around the thick digits penetrating him.

He was a shaking, quivering mess by the time Haytham’s knuckles bottomed out. Palming his flagging erection, Connor was only vaguely aware of the Templar’s fingers twisting and probing inside him until they focused in on one particular spot. A bizarre pressure built at the base of his spine that steadily blossomed into the most intense pleasure he’d ever felt. It was overwhelming and Haytham was relentless; Connor had to bite his lip to keep from crying out.

It seemed like an eternity had passed before Haytham’s fingers finally slipped free. Mind-numbingly hard, the Assassin whined at the loss, empty and arching, looking for more. More came in the form of his father’s cock pressed against his waiting hole. He pushed back mindlessly. “ _Yes._ ”

Steadying himself with a hand on Connor’s hip, Haytham began to ease in, holding his breath in anticipation. Connor was still rather tight around him but he could feel his muscles stretching to accommodate him further, hot and slick with oil. Forehead creased in concentration, he carefully pushed until he was fully sheathed within his son, pausing to savour the moment and let Connor adjust to the full length of him.  
Pulling back out again, he began a slow, languorous pace, falling into an easy rhythm and getting them both used to the motion. Rolling his hips, he sank deeply within Connor with each thrust, trying to find that sensitive place inside him once more.

Haytham gradually increased the pace, his breath quickening in pleasure with each forward jerk of his hips. It was incredibly tempting to let go of his patience and drive mercilessly home, but he restrained himself, his fingers digging into Connor’s skin where they still gripped his hip. His other hand wrapped around Connor’s cock and began to stroke him in time to his thrusts, his fingers still slippery with residual oil.

The Assassin winced as his muscles were stretched wide and his body was forced to accommodate the Templar's sizeable girth. There was no denying that it hurt— Haytham's erect penis was much larger than his fingers, after all— yet intermingled with the pain, was pleasure. Each brush, each graze of sensitive inner flesh sent blissful shivers down his spine, and despite the sharp ache in his gut, Connor arched his hips, trying to intensify the sensation. He was rewarded for his efforts with a slippery fist closing around his erection, and Connor nearly keened, caught between the urge to thrust up into his father's hand and back against his cock.

Wrapping his calves around Haytham's waist, he rocked in time with Haytham's gentle thrusts. The Templar was hot and hard and impossibly deep inside him. It didn't take long before he pressed hard on a spot that had Connor jolting, pain completely forgotten. "There," he groaned raggedly, still not quite sure what 'there' was, only that he wanted Haytham to hit it again. 

Haytham growled in pleasure as Connor’s powerful legs wrapped around his waist, encouraging him further with each thrust. Gratified with the knowledge that Connor was drawing his own enjoyment from the proceedings, he allowed himself to set a harder pace, still continuing to stroke Connor with long firm pulls of his hand.  
Soon he was barely thinking at all, lost in the blissful rhythm of it. All his thoughts revolved around how delightfully hot and wanting Connor’s body was as he continued to plunge into him, claiming him.  
And wasn’t that an intoxicating idea, he thought, spurred on by the notion. It was pleasing to his hazy, lust-filled mind to think of Connor as exclusively his.  
Each thrust drew him closer and closer to release, his breaths coming hard and fast in his chest as pressure built in his abdomen. It wouldn’t be long now.

Panting and writhing, rocking in time to Haytham's powerful thrusts, it was hard to believe Connor had ever been apprehensive of allowing himself to be taken in such a perverse manner. Being penetrated had been uncomfortable in the beginning, but now that the brunt of the pain had passed, Connor could easily see why a man might risk death or imprisonment for it.

He grappled at Haytham's shoulders and tugged him in for a sloppy kiss, practically bent in half as he held his father close, relishing the intimacy of it. Haytham had always said he was far too sentimental.

The change in position caused the older man to drive mercilessly against the gland inside him and Connor pulled away, gasping wetly at Haytham's neck. He was already teetering dangerously on the brink of orgasm. All it took was one choice press to his prostate to send Connor spiralling off the edge. Arching taut like a bow, the Native spilled over Haytham's pumping hand with a surprised cry, muscles clenching spasmodically around his cock in his pleasure.

Feeling Connor tighten around him was all the push Haytham needed to reach his own climax. A few more erratic thrusts and then finally he was spilling inside him with a groan.

Taking a moment to collect himself, Connor’s skin hot against his, he carefully pulled out and slumped on his stomach next to the Assassin. Once his heartbeats had slowed and he was breathing normally again, he realised how icy the air was against his sweat-slick skin.

Tired and sated, he wished he could just roll over and go to sleep but the need to be clean nagged at him.  
Pressing a brief kiss to Connor’s brow, Haytham rose from the mattress and cast about the room, finding an old cloth rag and wiping himself clean. Returning to the bed, he gave the rag to Connor so he could do the same, then climbed under the covers to stay warm. His eyes slid shut as soon as his head hit the pillow, feeling drowsy and content. As he fell asleep he reassured himself that he could deal with whatever consequences arose in the morning.

Connor took the proffered rag and sluggishly crawled off the bed. He stumbled to his feet, grimacing at the feel of Haytham's release dripping down his thighs, and cleaned himself up as best he could. He set the soiled rag aside to be thrown out or burned later.

Grabbing his discarded drawers from off the floor, Connor pulled them on gingerly. He smiled bitterly at the sight Haytham made dozing under the blankets, dishevelled grey hair spilled out around him and his normally austere countenance pliant and soft. Connor wanted nothing more than to join him. However, that was not something he believed his father would want nor appreciate. Only lovers spent their nights tucked against each other’s sides. He was not Haytham’s lover, they were not friends, and after what they had done, Connor was not even certain they could be called father and son. It bothered him much more than he was willing to admit.

Perhaps it was best if he returned to his bedroll.

He gathered up the rest of his clothing and limped over to lay them in a neat pile by his makeshift bed. “Goodnight, father,” he said quietly. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

Waking bright and early the next day, Haytham lingered in bed for a few moments as memories from the previous night flooded his mind. It had been something they had both wanted, he was sure of it, so then why did he feel so uneasy? He would have to wait until he gauged Connor’s feelings on the matter and then decide how best to move forward.

It wasn’t guilt, precisely, that grated on the edges of his mind (though the utter illegality of what they had done wasn’t lost on him). He was anxious he realised, prodding at the feeling. Anxious about Connor’s reaction. Would he regret it, or take it in stride?

Haytham sighed, climbing out of bed and beginning to dress himself. There was little use in speculating. He eyed his son, still curled up in his bedroll.  
“Connor,” he said briskly, fighting the urge to touch him. “Time to get up.”

He wondered if he should be tied up again and recoiled from the thought. Last night Connor had promised to do nothing Haytham didn’t wish him to, but that had been _then_ , both of them finally giving into their carefully-restrained desires. Of course Connor would have said whatever he thought Haytham wanted to hear. Haytham glanced at the rope where it had been discarded on the floor, but decided to leave it where it was. Connor had been tied up long enough. Perhaps he would come to regret it, but for now his heart felt lighter.

Brown eyes blinked open at the call of his name, and Connor, on instinct, bolted upright in his bedroll, alert and prepared for action. Once he realised it was merely his father, come to rouse him for the day, he flopped down again, grumbling something in Mohawk.  It took but a few seconds for memories from the previous night to come flooding back to him in torrents. Connor groaned.

“It is not yet dawn,” Connor complained petulantly, voice husky with sleep.

The room was still dim, the fire having long since gone out in the hearth; it was cold and he was sore. He did not wish to get up. Doing so would involve facing reality.

He had slept with his father. He had willingly offered his body up to the Templar Grand Master, his sworn enemy. And for what? A brief show of affection? To feel wanted? Desired? Loved? Connor would have liked to claim it wasn’t worth it, but in the end, he knew he would only be lying to himself. 

Haytham snorted, amused despite himself at Connor’s childish behaviour.

“The sun will rise soon enough,” he replied patiently, unwilling to be provoked by Connor’s disobedience. “Hurry and do as you’re told. Breakfast will be ready soon.”

Finishing buttoning up his waistcoat, Haytham sat back on his bed to pull on his boots, shooting Connor a pointed look as he did so. “You’ll be less stiff the sooner you start moving,” he reasoned wryly. Were he in Connor’s position he probably wouldn’t want to move either, but Haytham wasn’t quite ready to leave the Assassin unsupervised just yet. Untied or not, he would be keeping him in sight.

Fully dressed now, save for his coat and hat, Haytham stood and approached Connor’s bedroll, crouching next to him. “Come on,” he murmured, low and dark, giving in to the urge to let his fingers card through his son’s hair. “Or do I have to tie you up and drag you all the way down to the dining hall?”

Connor frowned. “You would not dare,” he stated lowly, deliberately shying away from the Templar’s touch. It was unwise to challenge his father. Connor knew full well that he could, and  _would_ , make good on his threat. He hated Haytham’s tendency to order him around, but he hated being fettered like some beast twice as much. For the sake of his dignity— and his wrists— it would be best to comply.

Begrudgingly, he got up, wincing at the sharp ache in his backside, and gathered up his rumpled shirt and breeches, putting them on carefully. They were then followed by his sash, belt, leggings and moccasins. Finally, he shrugged on his Assassins’ coat. Somewhere along the course of the night, he had lost his hair tie, but Connor paid it little mind. He only wore it to appease society’s customs anyway.

Haytham’s mouth thinned as Connor flinched away from his fingers, dropping his hand. So it was to be like that then, he thought, disappointed. To be fair, he _had_ just threatened the boy, but he’d only been half-serious.

Moving out of the way, he waited until Connor was fully dressed, pulling on his own coat in the process. Fetching his hat and satisfied that Connor was going to follow him, he led them down to the dining hall.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, Haytham not really in the mood to strike up any attempts at conversation. Despite his dislike of disobedience, he regretted his earlier words to Connor and wished he could take them back. He had hoped things would be different between them now, considering their intimacy of the past night, though how he didn’t know. Less strained perhaps. Instead it seemed to have made things worse. Or at least uncertain.

And yet things _had_ changed Haytham realised, playing back the events of last night in his mind. Connor had trusted him enough to let him take his innocence. That had to be indicative of some improvement in their relationship, surely.  
He gave Connor a considering look, wishing he could read his thoughts. Scanning the room to make sure they were alone, he asked bluntly “Do you regret last night?”

There was a clatter of silver as Connor dropped his spoon. Cursing his clumsiness, he scrambled to pick it up, shock and embarrassment turning his cheeks a bright red. Up until that point, they'd dined in silence, neither willing to break the fragile peace between them. Connor had been content to pretend nothing had ever happened. At least until he sorted out his emotions and what exactly it was that he wanted from his father. Haytham, on the other hand, was apparently not. 

Staring resolutely at his bowl of porridge, Connor wrung his hands in his lap. "I..." he started only to give a resigned sigh. What good would it do to lie? "No. I do not."

Haytham let out a relieved breath. Perhaps he’d been more concerned than he’d realised.  
“I am glad to hear it,” he admitted quietly. “I know things between us can be... difficult at times and I didn’t like to think that I had done anything to you that you weren’t certain you wanted.”

This was a most pleasing development, though how Haytham was going to concentrate with Connor in his office he didn’t know. If it had been difficult before, it was sure to be doubly distracting with the knowledge that Connor desired him as well. At least he’d probably be too sore to pace the room quite so much.

Perhaps there _was_ a way Haytham could keep him occupied, now that his hands were unbound  
“Do you like to read?” he asked curiously. “I know there’s little for you to do here, but I can at least offer you a book if you wish it.”

Knowing Connor was a man of action, he wished he could have offered more but it was far too early in this fragile bond of theirs to let the Assassin run free outside or handle a weapon. Perhaps soon, if he was convinced Connor would behave himself. Certainly Haytham himself was just about due for a field mission, having been reluctant to leave Connor alone and unsupervised at the fort.

“No,” Connor answered bluntly. He was too proud to admit reading wasn’t his strong suit. Achilles’ lessons had been sufficient, and in small doses, Connor was able to read, and even write, fairly well. He could easily scan notes and letters as well as decipher battle plans, but the teeming pages of books often overwhelmed him. Letters blended together and there were too many words he didn’t recognise. It was frustrating. “But I will take something,” he added after a moment’s pause. Even reading was better than the mind-numbing dullness of Haytham’s study.

Connor prodded at the remains of his meal, shifting, uncomfortable, in his seat. Seconds ticked by before he spoke again, his nervousness palpable. “What we did…” His voice was almost inaudible. “Will it happen again?”

Sweeping Connor with a hungry gaze, Haytham certainly knew _he_ wanted it to happen again. He took the fact that Connor was asking in the first place to mean that he did as well. Not to mention his tentative tone; fear of rejection perhaps?  
Sitting back in his chair to regard Connor properly, Haytham allowed a slow smirk to spread across his face. “Are you propositioning me?” he asked teasingly. “Recovered from last night already?”

It probably wasn’t wise to bait the Assassin like this but he couldn’t help it; the boy just looked so _anxious_. It was... rather endearing actually. Not quite ready to follow that train of thought, Haytham rose to his feet. “We’ll see,” he said finally. “Certainly I am not opposed, but in the meantime I have work to do.”

"I did not-... I am not-..." Connor spluttered, taken aback by the insinuation, before blurting out an eventual, "That is not what I meant!" His tone was defensive, however, it was clear from his uneasy expression and rigid posture, the answer he'd been given had left him rattled. He wasn't certain what kind of response he had expected from his father, but bemused acceptance had not been one of them.

"I had thought... given the circumstances..." His gaze flickered to the side, brows creased. "That you would not wish to do something like that with me again," he finished quietly. Many of his worries remained unspoken, but the simple fact the Templar wasn't averse to sharing his bed with him once more was enough to put Connor's conflicted heart at ease.

Following Haytham's lead, Connor pushed back his chair and stood up with a small amount of difficulty. He had a feeling he'd be limping for at least the remainder of the day. Perhaps Haytham would allow him a hot bath later. "Must you really work today?" he then asked as he shuffled around the length of the wooden table.

Smirk softening slightly at Connor’s honest admission, Haytham replied, “I see little point in continuing to resist something we both desire.” He watched with concern mixed with possessive satisfaction as his son stood carefully, obviously still sore, and circled around the table.

The absurd urge to kiss him arose as Connor got closer, though he stifled it hastily. Whether Connor allowed it or not, there was every chance that a maid or any other member of staff could happen upon them, and gossip travelled quickly.

“I’m afraid so,” he said instead; there was _always_ work to be done. His branch of the Templar Order was weak, and while Haytham no longer possessed the conviction to the cause that he’d had in his youth, he still recognised his responsibility. Until he was satisfied that the Colonial Rite was able to stand on its own two feet, it seemed he was still required to oversee its machinations. Besides, he would always believe in the importance of peace through order.

Usually he met the seemingly endless paperwork that faced him each day with some degree of tolerance, but today he felt only impatience and resignation. This constant inactivity was beginning to grate on him, but Charles was still off in Boston, and there was no one else left whom Haytham could trust. Sighing quietly to himself, Haytham led them up to his office.  
As usual there were new letters that required his attention waiting on his desk. Sitting down to open them, he gestured at his bookshelf. “See if any of them take your fancy.” Many of his books were tomes on philosophy, and were quite dry in nature, but he was sure he had a few novels tucked away in there somewhere.

Connor wanted to say there were  _plenty_  of reasons to resist whatever it was that was brewing between them, the most obvious of them being the possibility of imprisonment or, worse, death. As influential as his father was in government affairs, Connor suspected not even he could avoid punishment if caught, not to mention the detrimental effect an illicit incestuous relationship would have on his reputation. Sodomy was a horrible crime; incest even more so. It would destroy both them and their causes if they were discovered. The thought was not one Connor liked to entertain. If he were wise, he would put aside his selfish desires and end this debauchery before it was too late.

Instead, he nodded, following Haytham out of the room obediently. It was hard not to look disappointed when they entered the man’s study. It was just as cramped and stuffy as he remembered. Connor closed the door as Haytham immediately went to work. He fought not to roll his eyes.

Stepping over to the bookshelf that made up a large portion of the wall, the Assassin scanned the Grand Master’s vast collection. Many of the books were on subjects Connor had no interest in whatsoever while some appeared to be in different languages— none of which he recognised. There were also a handful of handwritten tomes on what Connor assumed to be Templar history and ideology. He picked the most promising of the lot, and after several minutes of searching, settled on a novel about a man named Robinson Crusoe as well. With both books tucked under an arm, Connor pulled a chair over by the window. He sat down gingerly and looked longingly out the smudged glass. “Will we be here all day?” he asked, although he was fairly sure he already knew the answer.

“Yes,” Haytham answered shortly, not looking up from his letter. The whole point of offering access to his book collection in the first place had been in the hopes of keeping Connor quiet. He knew it must be dull for the Assassin to be in his study all the time, but that wasn’t his primary concern right now.

Glancing up, he found Connor had once again taken up watch by the window. He dropped his gaze. He had to focus. For now it was best if he forgot the boy was even there. He could always make it up to him later...

Haytham hurriedly quashed the thought, banishing it to the back of his mind. Now was not the time.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor is bored. Mischief ensues.

Predictably, the correspondence he held in his hand contained only bleak news. Washington was as popular as ever, funds were running low, and one of his agents had been reported missing after he never returned from a mission. Whether he was dead or kidnapped was unknown. It was possible the Assassins themselves had taken him in for questioning - no doubt they’d noticed Connor was gone by now – but if so they wouldn’t learn anything useful from him. What Haytham had said to Connor when he’d first been brought in had been true; very few people knew he was here, and those who did knew to keep their mouths shut.

Haytham glared at the letter, frustrated. It was difficult enough to recruit new agents these days without them being lost all the time. The Order didn’t really have the money or status to support their lofty claims anymore, and so few of their number believed in the greater vision that it was impossible to expect them to convert anyone through idealism alone. Haytham took up his quill with a sigh. He had to write to Charles.

Stung, Connor frowned and turned to look at Haytham— absorbed in his letters, his father didn’t so much as acknowledge he was watched. It was as if Connor weren’t there at all.

So it was to be like that then, he concluded with no small amount of bitterness.

Grumbling something under his breath, he returned to gazing idly out the window. Fort George was already bustling with activity, and while Connor knew he should be paying attention, his thoughts would inexplicably be drawn back to the man sitting nearby. He considered trying to strike up another conversation, but he had a feeling his words would be met with naught but the scratch of a quill.

Well over an hour had passed before Connor finally resigned himself to reading. He cracked open the novel he had picked out. Scarcely a few pages in and he came across a word he did not recognise. Connor mouthed it several times, attempting to work out the pronunciation in his head but with little success. He skipped over it, only to become hung up on yet another long word a short while later. He skipped it as well. The third time a word gave him pause, Connor shut the book with a growl of frustration. He did not wish to read about this  _Crusoe_  anyway.

Setting the book aside, perhaps a bit more roughly than he meant to, Connor glanced at Haytham out of the corner of his eye. “What are you doing?”

Haytham was in the middle of calculating how much of the Order’s scarce funds they could afford to spend on arming their latest recruits when he was interrupted by Connor’s question. He had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from saying something unnecessarily scathing, the joyless news having put him in a sour mood. 

“Writing a letter,” he replied instead, brusque tone implying the obviousness of the answer. He glanced up briefly and saw Connor had discarded his book. “Finished already?” he asked dryly, eyes already back on his work.

Had Connor really grown bored with reading so quickly? That certainly didn’t bode well for Haytham’s concentration levels. Scanning what he’d written so far, he dotted an ‘i’ he’d missed earlier, then set his quill to the paper as he tried to formulate his next sentence. He shouldn’t indulge any more of Connor’s questions with answers if he had any intention of getting this letter finished and sent before the end of the day.

The Assassin could tell by the tone of his voice that his father was growing irritable. A wiser man might have let the conversation die then and there and left Haytham to his work. However, Connor was not exactly known for his bright decisions. "I do not enjoy reading," he reminded Haytham, seemingly undaunted by the cold reception his question had earned him. The simple fact he'd been responded to at all was enough to spur him onward.

Standing, Connor pulled his chair over to Haytham's desk, right up next to the Grand Master himself. Its surface was overflowing with books and letters and papers; he tried not to disturb the organised chaos as he sat down. It was only once he was settled, hands clasped between his parted knees, that he realised he was nervous. It almost reminded him of the feeling he would get when talking to a particularly attractive woman.

"Is there anything I could help you with?" he asked, unsure.

Haytham would have been content to ignore Connor’s reply and continue writing as if he hadn’t said anything, had the boy not the gall to actually plant himself and his chair directly adjacent to Haytham. Jaw clenched in irritation, Haytham had to fight the urge to laugh incredulously at Connor’s offer.

What exactly did he think he could do?

“Unless you plan on assisting me balance the Order’s accounts, you can help me by returning to where you were and keeping quiet,” he snapped.

Connor’s sudden proximity was distracting to him in more ways than one and the sooner the Assassin removed himself the better. Haytham fancied he was close enough that he could feel the heat of his body emanating from him, he was so aware of his presence. He wondered if Connor was even aware he could have such an effect on him.  
Pausing in his writing to dip his quill into his inkwell, he added sardonically, “I’ll give Charles your best, shall I?”

Connor made a face at the offer but otherwise remained put. Normally, he would have been deterred— Haytham's tongue could be a deadly weapon in and of itself. He had been around Haytham long enough, however, to recognise when the man was all bark and no bite.

"I could try," he stated seriously. He was hardly fool enough to believe his father would entrust him with important Templar documents, but working alongside Haytham could still prove beneficial to his mission. Although, what that mission was, Connor wasn't entirely certain anymore.

"If I am to be stuck here all day, I would like to do something useful. You have been... kind. It is only fair that I make it up to you."

Haytham paused to glance questioningly at Connor, moderately tempted by his absurd offer. “You realise of course that you would be helping the Templars,” he pointed out. “You _are_ still an Assassin, and I’m afraid it would be rather irresponsible of me to entrust you with any details of our internal workings. Besides,” he continued with a sigh. “You owe me nothing. Though if you _are_ so intent on repaying me, I’m sure we can settle on a much better method of compensation _later_ ”- the heated growl his voice dropped into hinted at just what ‘later’ would entail. “But only if you sit back over there and stay _silent._ ”

He was struggling to control his temper now, despite knowing he couldn’t really blame the boy for being bored. With Connor as tantalisingly close as he was, Haytham wasn’t sure if he wanted to strike him or silence him with an especially punishing kiss. The latter option lingered alluringly in his mind, his grip on his quill tightening as he tried in vain to quash it. This was ridiculous, he usually had much better control over his thoughts than this.

The heated suggestion was not lost on the Native, whose dark eyes clouded over with want at the possibility of spending another evening in the Templar’s bed. Licking his lips, Connor shifted in his seat. “Why can we not do both?” he asked, persistent. It was true, by helping Haytham, he would be helping the enemy by extension, but it seemed a small price to pay for his father’s attention. The Templar Order was on its last two legs anyway; a balanced budget would do nothing more than perhaps delay its inevitable collapse.

At least, that is what Connor managed to convince himself as he inched closer. He looked at Haytham coyly. He was positively radiating tension, Connor noticed with some degree of curiosity, though whether it was out of anger or distrust or something else entirely, the Assassin couldn’t be sure. Haytham could be a difficult man to read.

Haytham stiffened as Connor moved even _closer_ , licking his lips as though in invitation.

Oh that was _it._

With a muttered curse, he rose to his feet, dragging Connor up by the collar as he did so and crushing his mouth fiercely against his own. It was not a gentle kiss, fuelled by Haytham’s irritation with his son as he bit down on his bottom lip, demanding entry. Pulling Connor closer, he ravished his mouth roughly, thrusting his tongue between parted lips with a frustrated growl.  
  
“You maddening creature,” he snarled, stepping back to breathe but not releasing his grip on Connor. “Is patience really so difficult a concept for you to understand?”

In truth it wasn’t really Connor he was so infuriated with, but himself. Idle chatter was usually easy for him to block out when he was properly absorbed in his work, but Connor’s presence, this... _closeness_. It was proving too much for him to resist, which bothered him. He had of course enjoyed their interlude the night before but he had been certain he possessed the willpower to keep his desire separate from his work. But with Connor sending him such provocative glances, moving into such easy reach...  
Well it had proved far more difficult than he could have expected.

Connor made a muffled noise of shock when, without warning, he was hauled up from his chair and pulled in for a bruising, possessive kiss. Haytham’s adamance that he return to his place by the window suddenly made perfect sense. Connor wondered how he could have been so blind. He’d simply wished to get to know his father better. He hadn’t intended to  _tease_  him in the process. However, Connor was hardly about to complain, not with Haytham’s mouth meshed against his and a hot tongue down his throat.

“I did- I did not know…” he stammered dumbly once Haytham drew away, kiss-drunk and trying to catch his breath. He licked at his swollen lips, only dimly aware of the metallic taste of blood, and leaned in, desperate for more. Though it lacked Haytham’s harshness, the kiss was no less demanding. He should have felt shame at how addicted he was to his father’s touch, how easily he submitted to his desire, but Connor couldn’t think much past the heat pooling in his groin as he attempted to coax Haytham to sit back down. Fingers already hastily pulled at the ties of the other’s trousers, he broke their kiss to kneel halfway under the desk, worming his way between Haytham’s legs.  

It was so terribly easy to set his responsibilities aside, even if only for a moment, in favour of giving in to his hunger for the boy. Connor was wonderfully pliant and willing against his mouth, even pressing him for more when he began to pull away.

Silently cursing his sudden weakness of will, Haytham allowed Connor to push him back down into his chair, unable to look away as his son moved to kneel between his legs. He knew he should put a stop to this before it went too far. He had only intended to surprise Connor into silence and relieve some of his frustration; he hadn’t really expected Connor would be so responsive. In hindsight he probably should have, considering how the Assassin had been attempting to garner his attention all morning.

Haytham breathed in sharply as he felt the cold air against his skin as nimble fingers pulled at his trousers. Reaching down, his hand stroked through Connor’s unbound hair before tightening into a firm grip. It was already too late; he couldn’t have resisted if he’d tried.

The floor was hard against his knees and the position he was in uncomfortable on his healing backside, but Connor took very little notice. With thinly-veiled eagerness, he drew Haytham’s hardening cock out from the confines of his britches, immediately mouthing a long line up the side. The hesitance that had plagued him the previous night was gone, replaced by sheer want and desire. To most, the act of fellatio was generally seen as impolite, degrading even, yet Connor couldn’t seem to get enough of it. He enjoyed pleasuring his father in this fashion, perhaps more than he should, and it never ceased to amaze him how he could reduce Haytham to breathless pants and groans with merely his mouth and tongue.

Running a hand up the inside of Haytham’s thigh, Connor lapped at the head of the man’s burgeoning erection before taking it into his mouth and sucking gently. It occurred to him that neither of them had properly bathed since their last romp, and while the fact the last place his father had been was inside of him  _should_  have put Connor off, it only served to spur him onward. His throat was still sore from the last time he attempted to take the entirety of Haytham’s length, but Connor didn’t let that stop him from doing so again. Brown eyes flickered up to look at the elder man’s face as his lips slid further down his cock, swallowing despite the ache when the tip butted up against the back of his throat.

A shallow gasp escaped Haytham’s lips, his head falling back against his chair as Connor began to lick and suck at him. His mouth was frightfully good around him, hot and bold and shameless as his tongue glided down his length with effortless enthusiasm. How ever had he fathered such a devil?  
  
It wasn’t long before Haytham found himself beginning to forget he was supposed to be annoyed with Connor altogether, his mind temporarily wiped clean of all thought besides how quickly his son seemed to have picked up this particular skill. Spreading his thighs further, his fingers tightened in Connor’s hair as he took him down his throat, seemingly without difficulty. Well at the very least, Connor wasn’t able to ask any more pointless questions with his mouth full, Haytham thought absently, biting the inside of his cheek in an effort to keep himself quiet.  
  
Connor glanced up, dark eyes meeting Haytham’s gaze and holding it just before he swallowed, tearing a low groan of pleasure from Haytham’s throat. Curious to test Connor’s limits, Haytham let his hips snap forward, thrusting further down Connor’s throat. After all, Connor looked like he was enjoying himself far too much down there, and Haytham’s irritation with his son still lingered.

Connor's eyes flew wide open in panic, throat seizing around the unexpected intrusion. He gagged and gurgled helplessly, trying and failing to regain control of his muscles until he was forced to withdraw. Haytham's cock slid free from his mouth with a wet 'pop,' and Connor gasped for air. Chest heaving, he shot Haytham a half-hearted glare and wiped the saliva dripping from his lips. "I... I could... I could leave you like this," he warned breathlessly, though it was an empty threat. He wanted this far too much to walk away now and his father probably knew it too.  
  
Once his lungs had stopped burning, Connor dipped his head low, nuzzling at Haytham's erection teasingly before taking it back into his mouth slowly. Cheeks hollowed, he let the hot flesh slide along his tongue and settle in the back of his throat where he paused to take several deep breaths through his nose. Gaze locked evenly with Haytham's, Connor's lips widened as he sank further down the Templar's shaft. His throat was impossibly full and he couldn't breathe, but Connor had never felt more pleased than when his nose brushed up against dark pubic hair. Groaning purposely, he swallowed hard around the cock lodged in his throat.

The threat made Haytham smirk, not particularly sorry for having made his son choke. “Could you?” he asked curiously, stroking Connor’s hair back with idle affection. His question was answered as Connor’s mouth sank back down along his cock, no less eager despite Haytham’s rather unkind experiment. Connor’s eyes seemed to challenge him as he stared unabashedly up at his father, the look on his face positively filthy as he took him in deeper and deeper until Haytham was sure the boy would choke himself.

Still he continued, not stopping until Haytham’s length was fully engulfed in the smooth heat of his mouth. There his son had the audacity to groan most indecently around him, swallowing him down and making Haytham curse under his breath, his free hand tightening on the arm of his chair. He’d known Connor could be bold, but this wicked, wanton creature kneeling between his legs was a far cry from his previously bashful behaviour. Either way, it was rapidly fraying Haytham’s tightly-knit control, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer.

Connor seemed to know it too, repeating the motion until, panting and swearing, Haytham came down his throat, hips jerking as he held Connor still with an iron grip on his hair. Forcing him to swallow was perhaps rather merciless of him, but he couldn’t let Connor think he had gained the upper hand. Breathing raggedly as he came down from his high, Haytham released his grip. “Happy now?” he asked, sated and smug.

Connor yanked away the first chance he was given, coughing and gasping and sputtering. Once the worst had passed, he leaned against Haytham’s thigh, exhausted, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. He glanced up at his father with mild irritation. Haytham had been rough, and the smug smirk he wore was positively  _infuriating_ , but it was impossible for Connor to remain mad. “You act as though I did that for myself,” he panted, feigning indignation, and wiped at his mouth with the back of his coat sleeve.

He swallowed tentatively. His throat throbbed angrily in response. Perhaps he had pushed himself too far, but oh, how it had been worth it. There was nothing Connor liked more than watching Haytham come undone from his touch alone.

Sitting on the backs of his heels, Connor licked at the Templar’s spent cock, simply to watch him squirm, then tucked him neatly back inside his trousers and laced them up. He clambered to his feet, noticeably aroused. However, his own pleasure could wait. “I still want to help,” he stated pointedly.

Haytham was far too sated to be properly annoyed with Connor’s persistence. Briefly he wondered if that had been his son’s plan all along, though it seemed unlikely.

“Very well,” he relented, “though perhaps we ought to take care of you first, hm?” his fingers danced idly up Connor’s inner thigh, deliberately avoiding his arousal. “Unless you are able to wait; this is hardly the most appropriate of settings after all.”

Never mind that his own needs had just been satisfied. He wasn’t about to let Connor make a mess of his meticulously organised office, and he was hardly about to get down on his knees for him either (or at least not while they were in his own work space).

Dropping his hand, he turned in his chair and began sorting through his various papers, searching for something Connor could do without learning any sensitive Templar information. A letter he had received from an associate that very day caught his eye. In it, the man expressed his concern that the Order was being cheated by a corrupt merchant, though he had yet to find any concrete evidence to support the claim. He asked if Haytham could check the books and see if there were any inconsistencies between the merchant’s prices and their previous expenditure, but Haytham hadn’t yet found the time to look into the matter.

It was times like these he missed having access to the dubious skill sets of men like Thomas Hickey. With Hickey dead, his counterfeiting ring had collapsed, and with it the Templars’ foothold in the black market. As a consequence they were now susceptible to being duped just as much as everyone else. Just another blow to what was left of the Order’s pride.

“Here,” Haytham said, handing Connor the letter. “Check the costs listed in this letter against these,” he passed him a heavy logbook detailing the Order’s past finances. “Tell me if there are any strange increases in price, or any other irregularities.” Haytham doubted there was anything particularly surprising listed in the book, mostly costs such as accommodation and ammunition for agents on missions and other such necessities. Haytham suspected the Assassins’ equivalent would look much the same.

“Our location did not seem to bother you before,” Connor pointed out with a tiny smirk of his own and took the letter. He scanned the paper as he sat down awkwardly. He twisted from side to side in his seat while he read, searching for a comfortable position that didn’t exist, before stilling, legs spread. His erection was hot between his thighs— its presence magnified by Haytham’s fleeting touch— and difficult to ignore. He deliberated asking for assistance, or at least the opportunity to take care of the problem himself, but what little was left of his pride objected vehemently.

Instead, Connor poured all his concentration into the task at hand. Setting the letter to the side, he pulled the Templar logbook closer, flipping open the hardback cover and thumbing through the pages. “I expect compensation later,” he said, only half-joking.

“But of course,” Haytham agreed absently, already having taken up his quill again. Usually he’d have been annoyed by what he perceived to be Connor’s sense of self-entitlement, but he was feeling especially lenient at that moment. He did of course know that Connor couldn’t possibly be comfortable in such a state, but decided it was fair play considering how eager he’d been to help all morning.

He found his mind was much clearer now, and certainly less distracted by Connor’s presence now that he’d found something to occupy him with. The tension that had plagued him previously was gone, replaced by a calm focus, and he was able to finish and sign his letter to Charles and move onto the next task with relative swiftness.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fresh air and fresh injuries.

Time passed in comfortable silence – or comfortable for Haytham anyway, he didn’t know how Connor fared – as both of them worked through their set assignments. Glancing over at the clock, he found it was already noon.

“Lunchtime,” he murmured, breaking the silence as he rose from his chair. “Did you find anything?”

“Yes,” Connor replied, trying and failing to keep the enthusiasm out of his voice. It hadn’t been easy. Never mind his rampant arousal, he was not familiar with the Templar Order’s business dealings nor was he familiar with Haytham’s ledger and his distinct organisational methods.

In the end, he spent nearly the entire morning rifling through pages upon pages of sprawling script and comparing various prices and sellers before finally coming across the merchant who he believed the man in the letter was referring to.

“A man in Boston,” Connor pushed the logbook over for Haytham to see and pointed to a line of text, “Thaddeus Cartwright. He has been raising the price of your arms and munitions as well as other goods for several months.”

Cartwright was clever, Connor would give him that. It was only a handful of pounds each purchase, but those pounds began to add up over time as the ledger clearly showed. The Order was losing a considerable amount of money.

Clearly pleased with himself, Connor followed Haytham’s lead and stood up. The more enveloped he became in identifying the corrupt merchant, the less his physical desire seemed to matter, and it was obvious his erection had long since faded. He circled around Haytham’s desk. “May we eat outside today?” he asked in what he hoped was a casual manner. Connor didn’t expect Haytham to agree, but he had been confined to one building for over a week. He ached to be back in the outdoors, and even though dining in the middle of Fort George was hardly the wilderness he was accustomed to, just the thought of sitting out in the sun was enough to make Connor antsy with excitement.

Ignoring Connor for the moment, Haytham carefully scanned the section he had indicated. “That bastard,” he muttered under his breath, irritation mounting as he saw just how long the man had been stealing from them. He would be dealt with.

“You’ve done well,” he told Connor, straightening to face him and grip his shoulder briefly. “This Cartwright fellow’s done a good job of covering his tracks; only a particularly sharp eye could have seen it.” 

Moving to stand by the window, he looked out to assess the weather. It was unusually nice that day, the sun shining brightly. He could understand Connor’s need for fresh air but... well the fort wasn’t all that pleasant outside, built for security rather than aesthetic appeal. Much of the ground was muddied by the trudging of soldiers, and there weren’t many places they could go to be out of the way and undisturbed. Additionally the same old doubt as to whether he could trust Connor to stay still lingered in the back of his mind. The Assassin was fully recovered now, all stiffness aside. If he was determined enough, Haytham knew he had the means to escape.

And yet... perhaps it was overly arrogant of him, but it was becoming easier to believe Connor would choose to stay, either in the hope of attaining more of Haytham’s affection, or to sate his own lusts. Perhaps both.

Making a decision, he turned to face Connor again. “We will eat inside,” he said firmly. “But, if you can promise me you’ll behave yourself I am willing to give you the rest of the afternoon to yourself, so long as you remain inside the fort’s walls. Just...” he paused, wondering if he was making a terrible mistake. “Just don’t cause any mischief. And be sure to return in time for dinner.”

“What?” The crestfallen expression that had stolen over Connor’s face instantly morphed into one of complete and utter surprise upon hearing he could have free range of the fort for the afternoon. “Truly?” His eyes flicked from Haytham to the window behind him. Rays of sunlight filtered in through the murky panes, teasing and beckoning him.

It occurred to him that this was the perfect opportunity to extend his knowledge on the Templars’ headquarters, but all Connor could think about was climbing and running and jumping. He wanted to feel the sun on his back and the wind through his hair.

Joining his father by the window, the Assassin lifted a hand to touch the glass longingly then turned his head to look at Haytham. It still seemed almost too good to be true. “I am not hungry,” he said, quiet yet hopeful.

Haytham rolled his eyes. “The fort isn’t going anywhere,” he pointed out wryly, amused by Connor’s blatant eagerness. “But suit yourself. I’ll see you at dinner.” With that he turned and walked out of the room, heading back down to the dining hall.

Apart from this morning, Connor’s constant presence had been fairly unobtrusive during the past week, yet Haytham couldn’t help feeling some degree of relief to have some time to himself again. He was generally quite a private man and it was unusual for him to be in the company of anyone for such an extended period of time. The afternoon would serve as a sort of trial period for Connor; provided he did as he was told and didn’t get into any trouble, Haytham would certainly be happy to grant him more freedom around the fort.

As he ate, he wondered how best to deal with the merchant in Boston. Certainly he would need to be made an example of. The Order might be weak but that didn’t mean it couldn’t still punish lowlife swindlers like this man. It infuriated Haytham that he’d got away with such a thing for as long as he had.

Finishing his lunch, he returned to his study, relishing the quiet stillness of the room. Once he was seated back at his desk, he swiftly reorganised his various books and papers, then immersed himself once more in his work.

The sun had just started to set on the horizon when Connor rapped at the window to Haytham’s study, specks of blood and dirt caking to his face and hair tousled by the sea wind.

Many of the soldiers occupying the fort had been content to avoid him, while some ignored his presence altogether— something that suited Connor just fine. He had no desire to invoke his father’s wrath and neither did they, evidently.

One group of men, however, had not approved of the special privileges he’d been given and sought to put ‘Haytham’s half-breed pet’ in his place. They’d approached him late in the afternoon and, despite his best efforts, could not be reasoned with. They pushed and shoved, jeered at and taunted, until Connor’s fury overwhelmed his logic. He swiftly broke the wrist of the next hand that touched him.

The brawl that ensued was short. Connor walked away from the fight with a split lip and a bloody nose. The Templars were not so lucky. Although he’d made it a point not to seriously injure them, he was certain they would be nursing their wounds for several weeks.

Afterwards, he kept to the rooftops, away from the rest of the fort’s inhabitants. He knew Haytham would be angry upon his return, but Connor did his best to keep the slight trepidation at bay and tried to enjoy the remainder of his limited time outside. Now that he was mere seconds away from finding out if he was correct, he could feel the apprehension start to simmer inside of him once again.

Haytham glanced up, hearing the knock on his window, and frowned as he saw Connor peering through.

“What on earth happened to you?” he asked once he’d opened the window to let Connor through. “I thought I told you to stay out of trouble.” He circled around Connor to examine him properly, noting the blood covering his face with some concern. Whoever had caused that kind of damage to Connor’s face had to be considerably worse off if the Assassin was standing before him right now.  
  
Haytham eyed him with some annoyance. “Did you kill anyone?” he asked sharply. He hadn’t heard the alarm being raised, but perhaps Connor had silenced all possible witnesses as well.

“Three of your men were harassing me,” Connor explained, the urge to wither under his father’s piercing gaze strong. “I taught them a lesson.” His lips quirked in a small smirk, but when Haytham’s expression remained one of irate displeasure, Connor’s confidence waned significantly. His smirk disappeared. “I did not kill them,” he finally conceded. “I did not even wish to  _fight_  them.”

He dabbed at his cut lip with careful fingertips. “You are angry,” Connor sighed, resigned, once the silence became too much to bear. “But what would you have had me do?”

“I _am_ angry,” Haytham confirmed coldly, “though not necessarily with you. Those idiots should have known better than to give you any difficulty. _Although_ ,” he continued, eyes still hard as he continued to stare Connor down, “I can’t help wondering how they were able to corner you in the first place. Please tell me you weren’t actively _looking_ for trouble.”

Haytham was pleased to hear that Connor hadn’t needed to kill anyone, not because he particularly cared about any of his men in the fort, but rather because their deaths would have been an unnecessary complication. He wondered how badly they were injured, and if he ought to make some sort of show of punishing Connor. He reasoned that it really wasn’t any of his men’s business how he treated his ‘prisoner,’ no more than it would have been with any of his actual prisoners were they still held in the fort.

The Templar sighed, gaze softening minutely. “Go and clean yourself up,” he ordered, “it’s time for dinner.”

“I was on the wall overlooking the bay,” Connor admitted, crossing the room to where a metal wash basin sat tucked in the corner.

Even though he hadn’t  _truly_  done anything wrong by doing so, walking along the fort’s walls treaded the fine line between obeying Haytham’s rules and breaking them. It was not something his father would likely appreciate, but Connor had simply wanted to look out over the ocean. Escape had been the furthest thing from his mind.

“I had little choice in the matter. I was not  _looking for trouble_.” In fact, he had been striving to do the exact opposite, hoping Haytham would be pleased.

Filling the bowl halfway, the Native doused his face until the water turned murky with blood and grime. He grabbed a nearby hand towel and, mindful of his lip and nose, patted himself dry. Much of the bleeding had stopped, and although his nose was tender and sore to the touch, Connor didn’t think it was broken. Bruising was another matter entirely, but there was no way of telling just how extensive it would be until much later.

“Do you still have work to do this evening?” he asked quietly, dreading the idea of returning to Haytham’s study.

“I see,” Haytham said flatly, unimpressed. Still, even he had to admit Connor wasn’t exactly in the wrong. He could see how the Assassin’s presence might antagonise and even unnerve his men, but that in no way gave them the right to start harassing him. Watching Connor clean the blood from his face, Haytham realised belatedly he was feeling needlessly protective over the boy, and hastily pushed such ridiculous feelings aside. Connor could more than look after himself, and after whatever beating he’d given them those men would be unlikely to attempt such foolishness again anytime soon.

At Connor’s question, he turned to consider his desk. For once he was actually ahead in his work and nothing particularly pressing remained for that day.

“No,” he said at last, “no I think I’ve done enough for one day.” Moving to stand by the door, he held it open and gestured for Connor to walk through first.

“Shall we?”

Connor nodded and set the used towel back on the washstand. Smoothing back his wayward hair, he stepped through the open door and out into the narrow hallway, glancing at the Templar meekly as he passed. Haytham didn't look to be nearly as angry as he'd been initially, but the annoyed glint in his eye still lingered. Connor hoped he could remedy that.

He waited patiently for Haytham to join him, inwardly elated that they would not be returning to this particular room for the rest of the night, before continuing down the corridor to the stairwell. After over a week of residing in the same small building, Connor knew the path to Haytham's private dining room by heart.

They walked in tense silence, and it was a challenge not to turn and look at the man behind him. By the time he and Haytham had arrived and been seated by the kitchen staff, Connor's nerves were beginning to get the better of him once more.

"I suppose you will not be letting me out again..."

Haytham eyed Connor speculatively, considering his answer. “We’ll see,” he said finally. “It does me no good having you rankling my men outside, but I can’t have you pestering me while I work all the time either.”

Despite his injuries, Connor looked better somehow for having been let outside. He had colour in his cheeks and his eyes were bright; obviously the fresh air had done him good. If Haytham _was_ to let him outside again, he trusted that Connor would learn from his mistakes and stay out of the way of the Templars next time. Up on the rooftops perhaps. He _was_ an Assassin; he could at least act like he possessed some semblance of stealth.

Haytham rolled his eyes, seeing Connor’s obvious dissatisfaction with his admittedly vague answer. “I’m inclined to give you another chance,” he conceded. “I can’t fault you for defending yourself. Mostly it comes down to how well you behave yourself over the next few days.”

Connor visibly sagged at the prospect of spending the next several days sucking up to his father while he deliberated. Given the circumstances, he supposed it was the best he could hope for— he had assaulted Haytham's men, after all— but now that he knew exactly what he was missing out on, the thought of remaining indoors became all the more painful. "Thank you," he said anyway, struggling to remain optimistic with the threat of Haytham's study and Robinson Crusoe hanging over his head.

Their meals arrived shortly after: meat pies, a hearty-looking soup and a loaf of bread. Connor's stomach grumbled loudly as it was set out neatly on the table in front of them. Perhaps he should not have skipped lunch.

Once the kitchen-maids had left with their carts and trays, Connor tucked in with gusto, too hungry to care much about formalities or etiquette.

Haytham chewed at a more sedate pace, pointedly ignoring Connor’s rather ill-mannered enthusiasm. As he ate he wondered what he was going to do with his son. He had no intention of keeping him there in the fort forever, but how long would it take before he could be sure Connor would return to him of his own accord? Their current arrangement wasn’t particularly healthy for either of them, he knew, but figured it would be a bit longer before he could be sure he had Connor completely under his thumb.

Still, it was a good sign that Connor had made no attempt to escape when given the opportunity to do so. Perhaps he held more sway over the young Assassin than he’d realised. It was no secret to him that Connor hungrily sought his approval, but how much more of being shut up in Haytham’s study could he endure?

Truth be told, Haytham was beginning to tire of it as well. He wondered if it was too early to trust Connor to accompany him on a mission outside the fort. The corrupt merchant in Boston was as good an excuse as any to leave the suffocating walls and the seemingly endless paperwork of his study. The fact that the man was a neutral party, unaffiliated with either faction didn’t hurt either. Haytham would have to think on it.  He’d had enough of the two of them being confined and miserable.

In the meantime... Haytham eyed Connor with a different kind of hunger than that of his stomach, eyes darkening slightly. “How are you recovering?” he asked slyly, referring to his earlier soreness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick thank you to everyone who has commented and/or left kudos! We really appreciate it <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haytham and Connor are dirty.

Mouth full of soup, Connor glanced up from his half-finished meal to fix Haytham with a puzzled expression. He swallowed with an audible gulp, setting down his spoon. The Assassin reached up to touch his nose then lip absently and winced when they twinged painfully in response. Was it not obvious how he was recovering? Surely his skin had blossomed in a myriad of bruises by now, and it had scarcely been a few hours since his scuffle with the three Templars.

“It was merely a few punches, father,” he said, head cocked and eyes narrowed in naïve confusion. It was not like Haytham to care about his wellbeing unless there was something he wanted from him. “I will be fine.” Giving the Templar one last scrutinising look, Connor picked up his spoon and went back to his dinner.

Haytham gave his son a look of mild disbelief, torn between amusement and irritation at his misunderstanding. “It’s not your face I was asking about,” he said pointedly, but otherwise decided to let it lie. Connor would figure it out eventually, and in a way Haytham already had his answer; Connor couldn’t be feeling too much pain if he’d already forgotten about it.

Following Connor’s example, Haytham returned his attention back to his food, grateful as ever to whomever it was who had provided him with a decent cook. Finishing his soup slowly, so as to savour it, he wondered what he was going to do with the evening he’d given himself off. It wasn’t often he found himself with any leisure time.

“I do not understand. Then what-…?”

Realisation slowly dawned on his face.

Cheekbones turning a brilliant shade of scarlet, Connor prodded at what remained of his soup with the bowl of his spoon, at a sudden loss for words. There was a part of him that said he should feel comfortable talking about something as natural as sex— except there was nothing  _natural_  about sleeping with one’s own father, Connor’s mind supplied— but each time their conversation drifted toward more indecent topics, his normally unshakeable confidence flew right out the window.

It was at these moments when it became painfully obvious to Connor that he had no idea what he was doing. Things were simpler during the act itself, when all he had to rely on were instincts. He could stop thinking and just… feel. He did not have to worry about the hows, whys or what ifs and his embarrassment was only fleeting. It was not until afterwards, until talks like these, that he felt so hopelessly awkward. He dreaded to consider how he must look to his father.

“It does not hurt much,” he murmured quietly. In all the excitement of the afternoon, Connor had completely forgotten about the sharp sting of his backside. It had given him a small amount of trouble the first few hours, but now, it was hardly noticeable. Everything still felt slightly odd, like his muscles had not entirely tightened yet, though Connor supposed that was to be expected after being stretched as wide as he had.

Haytham watched in quiet amusement as comprehension dawned on Connor’s face, his cheeks flushing. It was curious how the boy could be so bold and audacious during the act itself, yet be so flustered by the mere mention of it.

Satisfied that they had eaten their fill, Haytham set his plate and cutlery aside for the kitchen-maids to clean up and stood up. “Are you coming?” he asked nonchalantly. “I believe you mentioned a matter of compensation earlier?”

Desire had begun its slow burn through his veins, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if Connor was growing impatient himself, having been denied release all day.  
It was unusual, Haytham realised, for him to be so easily seduced by someone, to be so easily entranced by their mere presence. It was something he would have to be wary of, lest it become too obvious to others (including his son).

The Native looked up from where he’d been staring resolutely at his half-eaten bowl of soup, interest piqued by the suggestive undertone in Haytham’s voice despite his lingering uneasiness.

In all truthfulness, he hadn’t expected repayment. He’d asked for it, yes, and Haytham had agreed— albeit in passing— but Connor was also aware that there was a good chance his father had only done so just to pacify him long enough to finish his tasks. Connor hadn’t minded. Not really. There was little room to be picky when in a relationship such as theirs, if what they had could even be called a relationship. Connor would take what he could get and cherish every second before everything undoubtedly fell apart around him.

“I did,” he said and got up from his chair. He followed Haytham out of the dining room, keeping a short distance away as they began the short trek back to their shared room. His heart was hammering wildly in his chest; it was a wonder Haytham did not hear it. “It is early,” he stated absently then continued, “Surely you don’t mean to… compensate me all evening.”

Stopping to open the bedroom door, Haytham shot Connor a heated glance. “Afraid you can’t keep up?” he teased slyly. “But no, of course not. _Some_ people are content to sit and read a book, when given the chance.”

It had been quite some time since Haytham had been able to read for pleasure, rather than anything strictly Templar-related. He was looking forward to it, though perhaps not quite as much as he was looking forward to having Connor beneath him once more.

“We have plenty of time,” he murmured, closing the door behind them both. He paused to press a careful kiss to Connor’s mouth, mindful of his injuries, and said, “Perhaps first I should have a bath drawn.”

Connor was still a bit dirty and bloodied from his foray outside, and certainly Haytham himself wasn’t opposed to the blissful thought of hot water. Mind made up, Haytham went to ring for servants to attend them. They brought in a hip bath and began to fill it with jugs of heated water, then looked askance at Haytham, wondering if he required further assistance.

Haytham thanked and dismissed them, and they shut the door as they left. He turned to regard his son. “You first, or shall I?” he asked lightly.

Connor eyed the steaming tub with a considering gaze. The polite thing to do would be to offer its use to Haytham first, but it wasn’t often he was afforded the luxury of a fresh, hot bath. Sweat and grime were a part of his everyday life, and on the off chance he had the opportunity, he usually bathed quickly, a bucket of cold water and a rag his only means of hygiene.

Ironically, it was not until his imprisonment in Fort George that Connor had the experience of being well and truly clean. It was definitely something Connor relished.

“May I?” he asked, already beginning to strip down to his smallclothes in anticipation.

When no objection was forthcoming, Connor peeled off the remaining few layers and stepped, gangling, into the large basin. The water was hot, almost unbearably so, but it was one of the best things he’d felt in days.

Connor breathed a pleasured sigh as he immersed himself further in the water, letting the warmth seep into his tired muscles. “You are spoiling me, father.”

Haytham made a derisive noise. “Hardly, I just don’t want you tracking mud in my bed,” he responded dryly. He handed Connor a sponge and a bar of soap. “Do _try_ to get out before the water turns cold.”

Leaving a towel where Connor could reach it, Haytham moved to stand by the fire to stay warm while he waited. Night had fallen, and the air was cool.

Despite his attempts to not be _too_ obvious, his eyes kept being drawn unerringly back to the admittedly breathtaking sight of his son in the bath. His muscles were gleaming as the water reflected the warm light of the candles, his bronze skin shining and wet.

Haytham swallowed, breath catching in his throat, and resolutely tore his gaze away. He cast about in his mind for something to distract himself with.

“I’m thinking of going after this merchant in Boston myself,” he began slowly. “Considering your usefulness in the past, I might be willing to bring you along.” He smiled to himself. “Just something to bear in mind.”

It wasn’t as if Connor had been particularly ill-behaved during the past few days, but some added incentive wouldn’t hurt. If he was being honest with himself, Haytham did _want_ Connor to come along, but he wouldn’t be able to justify it if the Assassin did anything particularly bothersome in the next few days.

“You did not seem to mind it that much last night,” Connor pointed out, shooting his father a wry smirk then dunking his head under the water.

He had just begun to soap up when Haytham offhandedly mentioned the merchant in Boston and his intent to find the man himself. It didn’t surprise Connor. Haytham seemed to like personally doling out punishment to those who slighted the Order.

What he didn’t expect, however, was the subsequent offer to join him. Connor’s eyes widened in disbelief, which, admittedly, must have looked comical with his hair and bruised face covered in suds.

“I would not be opposed to helping you, but you will not kill him.” It was not so much as a question but an order. Cartwright may have cheated the Templars of their money, and for that he deserved to be punished, but to Connor, justice did not always have to mean death. Haytham, he was sure, believed differently.

Despite the temptation to linger, Connor bathed hastily yet efficiently. He scoured every last centimetre of his body until not a speck of dirt or blood remained and his skin was tinged pink from the heat. Setting the bar of lye soap down along with the sponge for Haytham to use later, the Assassin rose, soaking wet, from the water. He grabbed the towel Haytham had left nearby and, not wanting to drip all over the bedroom floor, scrubbed himself dry before climbing out of the tub. Hair damp and mussed, he wrapped the towel around his waist.

He stepped over to where Haytham stood, impeccably dressed as always, and circled behind him, reaching up to teasingly tip his hat forward. “It is still warm.”

Haytham chuckled, amused by Connor’s vehemence. “Fine words from an Assassin,” he scoffed. What else was he to do with the man? Turn him into the authorities or something equally useless? He wasn’t really in the mood to argue the point at that moment, however, so let the subject drop.

Besides, he was far too busy trying not to stare as Connor rose from the bath and towelled himself dry.

Haytham growled half-heartedly as his hat was pitched forward, taking it off and setting it safely to one side.

Once he’d stripped off his various layers of clothing, he stepped into the water and was pleased to find it still quite hot. Haytham sank into the water with a quiet sigh, retrieving the soap and the sponge from where Connor had left them and beginning to wash himself thoroughly. Pulling his hair free from its ribbon, he gave his scalp a good lathering as well, rinsing it clean in the water.

He too was tempted to linger, feeling fresh and clean, but already the water was beginning to cool and he didn’t want to catch a chill. He looked over at Connor, a devious glint entering his eye as he stretched out one hand. “I’ll be needing that towel back.”

Connor thought to argue— he was a killer by trade and by nature, but he did not advocate needless slaughter— however, the last thing he wanted was for the evening to deteriorate into a petty squabble over ethics. He would contend the merchant’s fate if and when the time came.

For now, he was content to sit back and watch his father bathe. Unlike Haytham, Connor had no qualms about staring.

It was no secret Haytham was physically getting on his years. His hair was nearing silver, his skin scarred and lined with age, muscles lacking the hard definition of youth. His body shown of decadesof adventure, of battle, of hardship.

Connor didn’t believe he’d ever been more attracted to another person in his entire life. Haytham was intoxicating, and Connor felt his loins stir in response.

“I do not know,” he taunted, leaning against the brick of the fireplace, “I rather like you like this.”

Haytham glared at his son, already feeling his body reacting to Connor’s heated stare. “The water’s turning cold,” he stated pointedly, hand still outstretched. He briefly considered just marching over and tearing the towel off Connor himself, but it wasn’t worth getting water all over his floor.

It seemed he would need to be more convincing.

Sighing to himself, he fixed Connor with a heavy-lidded gaze. “Very well,” he mused, “if this is where you want me to be, then this is where I’ll stay.”

Slowly, he let his fingers dance lightly down his own chest, trailing water. Lower and lower they traced, until finally he sank back against the bath with a contented sigh, his fingers wrapping around his cock under the water as he began to stroke himself idly. Closing his eyes, he listened carefully, waiting.

The Native Assassin’s gaze turned predatory and followed Haytham’s fingers hungrily as they traced slick lines down his chest before disappearing into the water. The surface rippled tantalisingly, teasing him with what was undoubtedly taking place just underneath. His cock gave a twitch of interest.

“That is not  _fair_!” Resisting the instinctive urge to palm himself through his stolen towel, Connor growled in abject frustration. 

He made it all of ten seconds before yanking off the towel from around his waist and stomping over to the washtub. Resembling a spoilt child who did not get his way, he held it out petulantly for Haytham to take.

His lustful eyes narrowed in a glare. “ _Get out_ ,” he demanded, impatient and impossibly aroused.

Haytham’s eyes opened slowly and he smirked at Connor. “Thank you,” he said graciously, taking the towel from him and standing. The air was a cold shock against his wet skin, preventing him from taking his time to dry off, as amusing as it would have been to tease Connor further.

Satisfied that he wasn’t about to drip water all over the floor, he stepped out of the bath and padded over to where his son waited impatiently, stopping once he was within arms’ length.

“Well look at you,” he murmured, eyes blatantly raking the full length of Connor’s body, admiring him. He was sure it was a form of narcissism, to be so appreciative of his son’s form, to be so pleased by the thought that _he_ had been part of the process that had created such magnificence, but the thought didn’t trouble him overmuch.

Of course he’d seen Connor naked before, but this was the first time he’d had a proper chance to really _look_. The light of the fire played over his bare skin, giving it a warm glow, as shadows accentuated the lines and curvature of impatiently shifting muscle.

Deciding he’d waited long enough, he took a step forward, hands coming up to rest on Connor’s waist. His skin was warm beneath his palms, heated from standing by the fire. Pulling him closer, he at last drew him in for a firm kiss.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex and a sleepover.

Connor snarled ferally into the kiss, hands coming up to fist, insistent, in Haytham’s damp hair. In a bid for dominance, he nipped at the Templar’s lips, demanding entry, and groaned, heady with want, when their tongues meshed in a slick dance that left Connor breathless.

The fire burned molten hot in the hearth behind him, and his father’s body felt like a furnace against his skin. Pressing closer, Connor tried to manoeuvre them toward the large bed in the centre of the room, annoyance at Haytham’s earlier teasing and desperation urging him to vie for control. It was glaringly obvious that he still lacked experience, but his boldness and temerity more than made up for his absence of skill as he pulled them, tumbling, onto the mattress.

He rolled to straddle Haytham’s bare hips, breaking their kiss to mouth along the older man’s jawline then throat. “You owe me,” he hissed in Mohawk, unaware of his lapse in language, and ground his backside against Haytham’s cock in a lewd promise of what was to come.

Pleased by Connor’s newly found ferocity, Haytham offered little more than token resistance as he was manhandled over to his own bed, kissed fiercely all the while. Pinned to the bed by Connor’s warm, solid weight, he groaned as his son deliberately rocked against him, growling something in his own guttural language. Despite not understanding his words, it was obvious what Connor wanted.

“God you’re a devil,” he panted, baring his throat further to Connor’s mouth. Unable to move, he took what little control he could by tangling fingers in Connor’s hair, dragging his head up for a punishing kiss. While being pinned down and helpless wasn’t one of Haytham’s _favourite_ things, he could admit there was an odd sort of appeal to being held at his son’s mercy like this. Besides, he was confident he could have escaped had he felt it necessary.

“Your devil,” Connor gasped out without thinking once they parted, chest heaving for air.

He attacked Haytham’s neck again with tongue and teeth, trailing down to where collarbone met shoulder then to his chest, dragging dark, purpling marks to the surface in his wake. The sting of his split lip seemed inconsequential compared to the deep-seated satisfaction he gained from having his father under him and at the mercy of his wandering mouth.

Holding him down with a firm hand, the other braced on the mattress, Connor shifted back along Haytham’s thighs, scraping his teeth along the older man’s left pectoral, licking experimentally at a dusky nipple. He pulled it into his mouth, sucking hard as he rutted shamelessly against his father’s legs.

Well, how was Haytham supposed to respond to a declaration like that?

_His._

Yes, he liked the sound of that. Possessive satisfaction rolled through him at Connor’s words, and it took him a moment to realise just how thoroughly he was being marked. Fortunately the collar on his overcoat was quite high and would shield most of the marks from view... – his thoughts stuttered to a halt as a hot mouth descended on his nipple, making him groan and arch into the touch.

The boy _did_ learn quickly.  
  
“So,” Haytham murmured, husky and breathless with want. “What do you intend to do with me?” He rolled his hips for emphasis, thrusting up against the firm muscles of Connor’s abdomen. It was all very well to have Connor grinding so wantonly against him, but Haytham was beginning to feel far too passive a participant.

Connor looked up through his lashes, pupils blown wide with lust, and laved the flat of his tongue over Haytham’s nipple for no other reason than to watch his jaw clench and the way his muscles flexed as he arched and thrust against him.

“Mm,” he made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, “Something different.” He’d heard talk among his crew during his long voyages aboard the _Aquila_ , listened to them boast and tell tales of their many conquests with the fairer sex. The stories were often all the same, but one in particular stood out to him.

With one last, teasing lick, Connor withdrew, sitting back on his haunches to admire his handiwork, a small smirk playing at the corners of his lips. He took Haytham’s erection in hand, expression thoughtful, and ran his thumb over the weeping tip, beginning to pump him idly. “I would like to try and ride you.” If a woman could do it, then why couldn’t he? 

Haytham hissed and jerked into his hand, though he stilled at Connor’s words, eyes gleaming at his suggestion. He wondered where Connor could have gotten such an idea, though he supposed it didn’t really matter. Once again he found himself surprised by his son’s audacity, bold as brass as he made his proposal.

Relaxing his muscles, he sank back against the mattress, wetting his lips with a suggestive swipe of his tongue. “Not without preparation you won’t,” he stated blithely. Twisting slightly so he could look at his dresser, he inclined his head in its direction. “Go and fetch the oil; you know where it is.”

Connor wasted no time obeying. He clambered off Haytham’s lap, jostling the mattress as he stood up, Plodding over to the dresser nearby, erection bobbing awkwardly between his legs, he opened one of the topmost drawers and rifled through its contents. He pulled out a vial of sword oil. After recognising it as the same one from the night prior, Connor slid the drawer shut and returned to where his father lay watching him, oil in hand.

Connor crawled back onto the bed, settling, straddled, across Haytham’s thighs once more. He examined the small bottle, his expression contemplative, then wiggled the cork free. He doused his fingers in oil. Rubbing them together, Connor stoppered the bottle and set it aside.

He leaned forward for a sloppy kiss and reached behind himself to trail exploring fingers down the seam of his buttocks. He petted his entrance firmly, trying to relax, before pressing in lightly with his index finger. Connor expected pain or at least discomfort, but the digit easily slipped in to the first knuckle. Perhaps he was looser than he’d previously thought.

Connor carefully worked himself open until he was stretched wide and trembling with desire, gasping upon every thrust of his fingers inside him.

Haytham responded hungrily to Connor’s kisses, eager for more. He watched every movement of Connor’s with predatory intent as the boy did as he was told, enjoying the way his breath stuttered in his throat as he stretched himself.

Seeking to distract himself, he reached over and took up the oil himself, slicking up his aching erection with careless efficiency and then setting the bottle aside once more. His hands settled on Connor’s waist, steadying him as he waited.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he drawled, not quite able to keep his impatience from entering his tone. His self-control was being sorely tested with Connor pleasuring himself above him like that, every instinct screaming at him to just flip them both over and thrust home. His fingers tightened their grip on Connor in anticipation.

If he wasn’t so distracted by the slide of his own fingers into and out of his willing body, Connor could have grinned at Haytham’s impatience. It would have been easy to allow himself to continue, to force Haytham to watch as he found release without him, but as much as the thought of tormenting his father appealed to him, Connor wanted more.

Removing his fingers, Connor climbed up to press open-mouthed kisses to Haytham’s neck and shoulders. He grasped blindly behind him for his father’s cock, murmuring brokenly in both Kanien’kéha and English against the damp skin of Haytham’s throat, and gave the hard flesh a few teasing tugs. He inexpertly lined himself up, feeling the head catch on his waiting hole, and bore down slowly with the help of his hand. “Ah,” he groaned, eyes clenched in concentration, “Raké:ni.”

Haytham growled but otherwise let Connor soothe his frustration with kisses littered across his torso, muttering in an incomprehensible mix of English and Mohawk. Letting the broken syllables wash over him, Haytham watched as Connor at last moved into position.

He held himself still, breath catching in his throat as Connor sank down onto him, slowly engulfing his hard length in tight heat. Amidst his son’s incoherent speech, one word stood out with particular clarity, enunciated clearly.

‘Raké:ni.’

Haytham wondered what it meant. He would have to inquire about it later, when Connor wasn’t too busy grinding down onto him to explain. Fingers now bruisingly tight on Connor’s waist, mindless words of encouragement began to spill from Haytham’s lips, telling him how well he was doing, how good he felt as they both waited for him to adjust.

Connor drank in the murmured words of encouragement like a man dying of thirst, bolstering his efforts and boosting his confidence.

His thighs trembled beneath him as he sat upright, fully speared on the thick flesh of his father’s erection. Hands braced against Haytham’s bruise-smattered chest, he rolled his hips experimentally, rising up a hairsbreadth before dropping back down with a stuttered whine. He thought he’d been prepared, physically as well as mentally, but the second time around was quickly proving to be just as overwhelming as the first.

“Raké:ni,” he moaned, repeating the motion, “Father. This is-… Ah-…” He was forced into silence as the head of Haytham’s cock brushed against a particularly sensitive spot inside him. The pleasurable pressure it wrought was instantly recognisable, and Connor ground down hard, shaking from head to toe, in search for more. “What- What is that?” he gasped out unevenly, amazed he could even speak coherently at all, “That… That spot.” It was difficult to explain, especially while he desperately tried to thrust and rock against it. “I have felt it before. The,” his eyes fluttered shut, “The last time.”

Despite the satisfaction of having Connor fully seated on his cock, Haytham couldn’t help rolling his eyes at the boy’s regrettable hold on lucidity. 

“Must you question everything?” he bit out, not particularly willing to admit he probably knew little more than Connor himself did. He knew there was a place inside them both, a gland of some kind that yielded a surprising amount of pleasure when brushed, either by fingers or a rigid cock; what more did Connor want to know?

Even if he had known more than that, it would have been quite beyond him to articulate clearly at this point. Connor was effectively robbing him of all sensibility as he ground shamelessly against him, broad frame shuddering.

“Just...” Haytham continued raggedly, breath faltering as Connor rolled his hips against him once more. “Just move.”

Under normal circumstances, Connor would have bristled at having his question brushed aside, perhaps even lashed out, but as it were, it was becoming difficult to focus on much more beyond the cock lodged inside him, spreading him open, making him quiver and gasp weakly.

He didn’t wait to be told twice. Lifting up on his knees, Connor plunged back down with a breathless shout, letting Haytham’s hands guide him.

He set an uneasy rhythm, gradually taking more and more until he was all but bouncing on his father’s lap. The bed creaked beneath their combined weights. There was no pain, only mind-numbing ecstasy, each drive of Haytham’s erection against his innermost walls wringing groan after groan from his throat. He could not believe he’d ever been apprehensive of such a pleasurable act.

Head tilted back, Connor reached for his weeping and neglected cock, pulling in long, hard strokes in time with the brutal rise and fall of his hips. It had scarcely been minutes, but to Connor, it felt like hours. He didn’t know how much longer he could last.

_Finally._

Haytham exhaled in relief as Connor at last began to move, raising his hips to meet him and matching his rhythm. Connor was riding him like a wild thing, stripped of his earlier inhibitions, lowering himself onto his cock as though desperate to be filled.

Were he not so distracted by the delightful sensation of his son hungrily fucking himself on his stiff length, Haytham would have been captivated by the vision he made.  Connor was unbridled in his pleasure, making no effort to restrain his moans, lips parted and eyelids fluttering, a crimson blush staining his dark cheeks.

Fierce satisfaction surged through Haytham at the knowledge that hehad put that expression there, spurring him into bucking his hips up with more force than before.

At the rate Connor was stroking himself, he probably wouldn’t last much longer, Haytham noted absently. Just as well too, for Haytham himself had almost been finished on the spot from the moment Connor had sank down onto him with such abandon.

Bucking and grinding on top of Haytham as though he were some unruly steed, Connor was nearly mindless in his search for release. It was probably unwise to be so vigorous in his efforts— he would surely be sore again come the next morning— but the possibility of later pain seemed insignificant compared to the here and now. His entire world was narrowed in on him and his father and the pleasure between them. Everything else was unimportant.

Connor tugged on his cock with zeal, staring blindly up the ceiling, heat coiling like a spring in his abdomen. All it took was one sharp thrust of Haytham’s hips against his own to send Connor tumbling off the edge of no return. He couldn’t have stopped it if he wanted to. He orgasmed with a strangled cry of Haytham’s name, muscles seizing spasmodically and wringing long strands of come onto both their stomachs.

Connor clenched around Haytham as he came which drew his own climax from him in turn, his back arching as he spilled inside him. Blinking somewhat dazedly, he relaxed back against the mattress, breath coming in shallow pants and his heart racing in his chest.

For a few moments Haytham could do little more than lie still and try to catch his breath. Pulling Connor down for a brief, hard kiss, he pushed ineffectively at the boy’s broad shoulders.

“You can get off now,” he grumbled half-heartedly, too sated to be particularly stern. “You’re extraordinarily heavy.”

Connor mumbled a muffled ‘sorry,’ too exhausted to argue or do anything other than obey. He propped himself up on his hands and knees, grimacing as Haytham’s softening erection slipped out of him, and sluggishly rolled to the side. There was no doubt in his mind that he would pay for his careless enthusiasm later, but Connor was confident what he’d just now experienced was worth every second of the inevitable discomfort.

He lay there for several minutes, boneless and pliant, Haytham a comforting warmth next to him. He sat up slowly and, pointedly trying to ignore the way his father’s seed dripped out of his abused body, crawled to the edge of the bed.

Standing up, he looked at Haytham, the smile on his face bittersweet. What he would give to re-join him, just once, and for a fleeting moment, Connor thought to ask.

Instead, he walked away.

This was about sex. That’s all it had ever been about. He had known that from the very beginning. His father desired his body, not his company, and Connor did not wish to face the snide rejection he would surely receive if he  _did_  ask for more. It was easier to walk away.

Cleaning up in the leftover water in the washbasin to the best of his ability, Connor retrieved his drawers off the floor and prepared himself for another long night on the bedroll.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Haytham asked as he watched Connor reluctantly turn towards his bedroll. “Get back into bed; it’s much too cold to be dithering about.”

He’d have had to have been blind to miss the look of longing Connor had given him and his bed before he’d turned away to clean himself up. Well, Haytham’s recent orgasm had put him in a generous mood so he saw no reason to turn his son away. At the very least, Connor would be a welcome warmth in his bed.

It wasn’t something he felt was worth making any sort of fuss over however, so he acted as though he had simply expected Connor to stay, despite knowing he’d given no such indication previously. Climbing off the mattress, he too gave himself a wash, then swiftly returned to his bed, covering himself in blankets - Haytham hated to be cold.

He shot Connor an impatient glance. “Hurry up then, before I change my mind.”

Connor stilled in the process of pulling on his smallclothes, expression a mixture of dismay and confusion. His father…  _wanted_  him to stay? Connor straightened and glimpsed over his shoulder. Haytham was staring at him crossly in return. Maybe…

He looked down at his small bedroll and thin blankets, which were looking more and more uninviting by the second, and finished buttoning up the fabric of his drawers. Would it truly be such a terrible idea, sleeping next to Haytham for the night?

Part of him argued that, yes, it would be. He was getting too close, too attached to a man who had no emotional attachment toward him, a man that, one day, he might have to kill. He was walking a dangerous path, one that would surely lead him to sorrow, but he couldn’t seem to let go.

Connor said nothing as he crossed the room and back over to the bed. Pulling back the plush covers, he slipped underneath them, doing his utmost not to disturb the dozing Templar. He didn’t seem to know what to do with himself.

He had never shared a bed with anyone, except for perhaps his mother when he was young. Connor’s heart ached at the thought and he turned on his side, keeping to his allotted side of the mattress. “Goodnight, father,” he said just as he did every night.

“Go to sleep” came the grumpy reply. Haytham had expected... not gratitude exactly, but at least some level of appreciation. Instead Connor had just silently obeyed, putting as much distance between them as he was able on the bed. It annoyed Haytham more than he cared to admit, which in turn quite bothered him.

For Heaven’s sake, if the boy hadn’t wanted to join him in his bed, he could have just said so. It wasn’t as though it particularly mattered to him. The thought _had_ had a possessive kind of appeal and he had liked the idea of having him so close at hand. Instead the reality had left him feeling rather hollow.

Irritated with his own foolishness, Haytham followed Connor’s example in shifting onto his side, facing away from his son. Feeling inexplicably bitter, he was eventually able to fall into a restless sleep.

Connor stayed awake long after Haytham’s breath had evened out and the fire in the hearth had died down to nothing but smouldering ash. He was both mentally and physically exhausted, yet sleep did not claim him until the early hours of the morning.

The first thing he noticed upon waking was that it was still dark; second, that he was enveloped in a thick layer of soft wool, cosy and warm.

Connor’s eyes blinked open drowsily. His cheek was pressed against something firm and radiating heat. Believing it to be his pillow, the tired Assassin draped his arms around it and nestled closer, completely unaware that his ‘pillow’ was in fact his father’s chest. Legs splayed out behind him on the bed, twisted up in nearly half the bedding, Connor let his eyelids drift closed once more. He fell back asleep almost instantaneously.

Haytham woke up later than he did most mornings, the first rays of sunlight already beginning to filter through gaps in the drawn curtains. Blinking sleep out of his eyes, he was immediately aware of being very very warm. Looking down at himself, he found his son draped across his chest like a large living blanket, arms wrapped around him in a loose embrace.

Somehow the Assassin had managed to commandeer most of the bedcovers as well, Haytham noted in mild irritation, finding himself barely covered by the edge of the blanket on his side. Well in any case, it seemed Connor’s sleeping self was far less reticent than when awake. Perhaps he’d been annoyed for nothing.

Haytham rolled his eyes, giving Connor an exasperated shove. “Wake up.”

Connor startled immediately upon being shoved. Bracing himself for a fight, he bolted, or rather tried to bolt, upright. The only thing he succeeded in doing, however, was tangling his legs further in the bedcovers. He looked around frantically in his half-awake, half-asleep state, tugging in vain on the blankets encasing his lower body.

His eyes eventually landed on Haytham, and his frenzied movements slowly ceased as awareness dawned on his face. It was just his father— just Haytham. They’d slept in the same bed. Haytham woke him every morning. There was no danger.

“Do not  _do_  that!” he hissed, flopping back down on the mattress.

Haytham watched, bemused, as Connor jolted awake, eyes wild. He probably should have known better than to wake a sleeping Assassin so suddenly.

“You needn’t look so frightened,” he said in sleepy amusement. “You’re safe here.” He turned to look at Connor where he had reclaimed his space on the mattress, raising an eyebrow, “Comfortable were you?”

He almost regretted waking his son; his skin had been pleasantly warm against his and having him so intimately close hadn’t actually been as bothersome as he might have expected.

Haytham pulled himself abruptly free of the twisted cocoon of blankets, pushing such nonsense from his mind. The day had begun and he ought to be up.

“I was until you took it upon yourself to _push_  me,” Connor grumbled, irritated at his own embarrassment, and burrowed deeper within the blankets while Haytham did the exact opposite. “And I was not  _frightened_.” He’d merely been caught off-guard, he thought with no small degree of petulance; that was all.

He watched crabbily from beneath the covers as Haytham prepared himself for the day, the predator in him silently pleased by the slew of bruises marring the man’s throat, shoulders and chest. It was shame they had to be hidden.

“Of course not,” Haytham agreed calmly. “You had best get up unless you plan on being found in my bed by the servants,” he added with a sly glance in Connor’s direction. Pulling his clothes on, he was pleased to find that _most_ of the bruises and bite marks scattered liberally across his skin were covered by his shirt. He hoped his coat would hide the rest. It seemed Connor had inherited his father’s penchant for possessiveness.

The thought should probably not have pleased him as much as it did.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road to Boston.

The next couple of days passed quite uneventfully, Haytham finishing as much work for the Order as possible before they left for Boston. The weather had turned noticeably harsher overnight, with fierce winds and sleet railing at the windows, but it wasn’t severe enough to be cause for concern. Haytham was looking forward to being out in the open once more far too much to be put off by a little rain.

At last the day of their departure arrived. Haytham had two horses brought around to the grounds, already saddled and bridled. Ensuring that all his own tools were well-stocked and in good repair, Haytham then had Connor’s various weapons brought to him from where they had been safely stashed. The two of them were in Haytham’s bedroom, making a few last minute preparations when a servant entered with the large locked chest in his hands. Once the man had left, Haytham unlocked the chest with a key and beckoned Connor over. “I’m returning these to you,” he said quietly. “If you’re coming along you may as well be armed.”

The days that followed passed without much ado. They spent their mornings and afternoons in the study— Haytham bent over mounds of paperwork while Connor hunted for any means to occupy himself— and their nights in bed— wearing each other down until, exhausted, they both fell asleep on opposite sides of the mattress. Much to Connor’s disappointment, he had not been allowed outside since his brawl with the Templar guards. Apparently, one of the men involved had sustained lasting injuries. Haytham had been annoyed, something about needing to find more recruits or another, but Connor was disinclined to feel too sorry for his actions.

Only the promise of tracking down the merchant in Boston made the monotonous routine his life had become somewhat bearable.

It was a Thursday morning. They were set to leave soon, hopefully before the weather took a turn for the worse. Travelling would be slow at best if it did; their horses would not fare well under such conditions. They needed to hurry.

He was just about to remind Haytham of this when the door to the room swung open and there entered a servant, carrying a massive chest that was far too big for his stature. It was left at the base of the bed.

Connor didn’t need to be told to know what was inside. He looked at his father curiously from his place by the window before following beckoning fingers. With the slightest amount of trepidation, he peered inside the chest. All his equipment was there, even his darts, carefully packed as though he’d left it there yesterday. He pulled out his tomahawk, turning it over in his hands, inspecting it, then set it back down, reaching for his cross strap and holsters. “Why keep them?” he asked as he examined and secured his weapons one by one. Surely it would have much easier, and satisfying, to destroy them.

Haytham watched as Connor equipped his veritable armoury of weapons, mulling over his answer. “Same reason I didn’t kill you as soon as you were brought in I suppose,” he mused. “It seemed a waste to just destroy them.” In all truthfulness he hadn’t really given the weapons much thought, his attention having been focused mostly on Connor himself.

Connor looked more like himself with all his effects strapped back on, Haytham noted idly. He seemed to stand taller, as though his confidence was bolstered by the added weight. “Ready?” Haytham asked, moving to stand by the door. He led them down the fort’s grounds, suppressing the urge to shiver as he felt the cold air against his face. Their horses were ready and impatient, so Haytham didn’t hesitate in mounting up, waiting for Connor to do the same before directing his horse into a steady trot.  
He exhaled quietly in relief as they passed through the fort’s gate without incident, his breath visible in the frigid air. Though he hadn’t exactly been a prisoner, he wasn’t sorry to be leaving the fort behind. 

Following suit, Connor climbed into the saddle with practised ease and nudged his horse forward after Haytham. He flipped his hood over his head, the beaked point falling low on his nose. The linen provided little protection against the biting cold, but the steadily dropping temperature was the last thing on Connor’s mind as they rode through the gate and out into the city.

After nearly two weeks of captivity, he was finally free of Fort George and its suffocating walls. The thought occurred to him that he could use the opportunity to make his escape, but it was a fleeting notion. He was no longer certain what it was he was hoping to gain from all of this, only that he did not want to leave. Not yet.

They travelled for most of the day, making a decent amount of progress despite the challenging weather they faced. At their current rate, they’d reach Boston within the week. Their luck ran out, however, when the first flurries of snow began to fall. It was early evening. Normally, Connor would have pressed onward, but he knew this land well enough to know a few snowflakes could quickly become a raging blizzard.

“Do you suppose we should stop?”

Looking up at the sky, Haytham could see it was already getting darker. It would be unwise to continue once night had fallen, and in any case the horses were due for a rest.

“Probably for the best,” he admitted, already looking for a suitable place to make camp. Steering their horses off the path, they wound their way through the trees, skirting a thicket of pines to find a clearing.

“This should suffice,” said Haytham, climbing down from his horse and securing it to a tree. The snow was falling more and more heavily, so he opened his saddlebags and pulled out a serviceable length of canvas to create a makeshift shelter. It wasn’t particularly big, but the air was so cold they would probably need to stay close anyway.

The thought didn’t bother Haytham as much as it should have.

He glanced at Connor. “Firewood?” he suggested, now laying out his bedroll.

Rolling his eyes, Connor scanned the area. There were many branches and logs strewn about, though many of them appeared to be soaked through from the sleet and would be near impossible to light.  He looked up, examining the nearby trees. Some of the inner boughs might still be dry. He disliked the idea of hacking away at a live tree, but it would be counterproductive to scavenge the entire forest for dry wood. They needed to build a fire before the sun set.

Double-checking his horse’s reins were tightly tied, Connor clambered up the side of a large birch. The outer limbs were slick with moisture, but the shorter ones growing near the trunk were dry as a bone— just as he’d predicted. He chopped quickly and efficiently until a sizeable stack of branches formed at the bottom of the tree. Securing his tomahawk back in its holster, Connor swiftly climbed down to join Haytham on the ground. He scooped up the pile of wood and brought it over to their small shelter. If they were lucky, it would last them until morning.

He cleared a place in the dirt and shredded a branch for kindling. Reaching into one of his belt pouches, he pulled out a piece of flint and unsheathed his hunting knife. “You could have helped, you know,” he said, though it was hard to keep the amusement out of his voice. He was far too content to be irritated at Haytham’s innate bossiness.

Haytham just smirked at Connor’s admonishment, having already settled inside their shelter. “You seem to have it all under control,” he said archly, watching with grudging admiration as Connor got their fire burning with easy efficiency. His mother must have taught him well.

The thought hit him harder than he expected, making his throat tighten and his heart clench in his chest. He hadn’t really had a chance to properly mourn Ziio since learning of her death, having been so focused on his work. While their separation had been a mutual decision, there had been many times over the years when he had wondered what might have been had they stayed together. Haytham winced as he imagined how horrified she would have been if she was alive to see how thoroughly he had seduced their son. While he couldn’t say he _completely_ regretted it, considering how much pleasure there was to be had from their sinful union, the thought of what Ziio might have had to say about the matter was not pleasant to entertain.

He was sure he must have loved her but like with most things, in the end he had put his Order first. He had _thought_ he had moved on from all that years ago. Making camp with Connor just like he had with Ziio back then brought all the memories hurtling back through his mind.

Haytham stood abruptly, trying to get his emotions under control. He brushed past Connor, very carefully not meeting his eyes as he muttered, “I’m going for a walk.”

“Now?” Connor asked, scrambling to his feet, a confused crease in his brow. Surely Haytham didn’t intend to take a leisurely stroll through the woods in _this_  weather. It was freezing. Sleet and snow were catching on the grass and other greenery, covering the landscape in a translucent, frozen sheet. Connor predicted the area would be blanketed in a thick layer of white in but a few hours. Neither of them were properly dressed for the elements, and the sun was already beginning to set on the horizon. Haytham would catch his death if he wandered out in the cold for too long.   

When no response was forthcoming, Connor scowled and went back to stoking the campfire. The next time he looked up, the Templar was gone. Growling something unintelligible under his breath, Connor dropped another branch into the blaze. He watched solemnly as it snapped and crackled.

His father had been troubled by something. Of that much the Assassin was certain. Haytham was not an easy man to read by any means, but Connor could think of no other reason as to why he would up and leave in such a hurry. Haytham was usually so perfectly composed. There was not much that ruffled his feathers. So why had he taken off like that?

Part of him worried that he had been the cause. It was illogical, but doubt had sunken its claws deep into his mind. He glanced around— there was still no sign of Haytham. He considered going after him,  _wanted_  to go after him, but he could not abandon their supplies or horses.

Seconds turned into minutes, minutes into an hour; nothing. It was dark, had been dark for quite a while. Connor had long since fetched his bedroll and a blanket from his saddlebag. Huddling next to the fire for warmth, he kept his eyes peeled for any sight or sound of his missing father.

Shivering in the cold, Haytham thoroughly berated himself for his own stupidity. Lost in his thoughts and driven by the need to distance himself from Connor and the camp for a while, he hadn’t realised how far he’d wandered. Eventually he’d come to his senses – helped along by the icy wind chilling him to the bone – and looking around he’d finally realised that darkness had fallen and he had no idea where he was.

It was so utterly unlike him to let his emotions rule him like this, especially to the point of endangering his own life. He was furious with himself. Haytham pushed his anger aside, replacing it with calm focus. He had to get back, or he would surely perish out here.

It was too dark to follow his own tracks on the newly snow-covered ground with his own eyes, but when he activated his second sight he was able to view the world through lighter shades of grey, allowing him to follow his own trail.

Drawing his coat more tightly around himself, hands thrust deep into his pockets, he began the long walk back.

After what felt like _hours_ his eyes finally caught a faint light that had to be their fire. Relief overtook him and he picked up his pace, ignoring the numbness in his cheeks and the stiffness of his legs. Stumbling into the clearing, he made a beeline towards the fire, ignoring Connor for the moment as he sought to regain feeling in his frozen fingers. Now that he was safe, his relief soon gave way to embarrassment for having behaved so irrationally. He stared moodily into the fire.

“I’m back,” he said at last.

Connor had heard Haytham’s approach long before he staggered into the clearing. It had been well over an hour and he was fraught with dread and worry, though he did not know how to express it without possibly making matters worse. In the end, he stayed silent.

Letting the blues and greys of his Eagle Vision fade away, Connor regarded his father quietly, the light of the fire dancing across their tired and weary faces. Pale and shivering in his finely-tailored attire, Haytham looked like death warmed over. Connor frowned and uncrossed his legs to stand up. Unwrapping the heavy wool blanket from his around his shoulders, he stepped over to where the brooding Templar stood and wordlessly pressed it into his hands. Haytham was older, Connor reasoned; he needed the extra warmth more than he did. At least, that is what he succeeded in convincing himself. The only other option would be to admit he'd been, and still was, scared for his father’s wellbeing.

He reached for another branch and snapped it in half, setting both pieces on the fire to be engulfed in flames. Sitting down, he chanced a glimpse at Haytham. “Sorry,” he said, gaze dropping again. “I do not know what it is I did to upset you, but I am sorry.”

Mesmerised by the flames as he was, Haytham barely noticed as Connor stood and approached him until the heavy weight of the blanket was draped across his lap.  
“Thank you,” he murmured, too cold to argue. He wrapped it around his shoulders and found it still warm from Connor’s body.

Connor’s apology surprised him into looking up at the Assassin. “It was not anything you did,” he explained tiredly. “I merely remembered a place quite like this from... a long time ago. I needed to clear my head.” He carefully didn’t mention Connor’s mother. Ziio was a sensitive topic for both of them.

Haytham sighed. “It was foolish of me to rush off like that. It won’t happen again.” It was unlike him to admit his own mistakes so readily, but he was feeling rather exhausted and the words flowed easily.  
Eventually his shivering stopped, and while he was still very cold he no longer felt quite so frozen. He gave Connor a considering look. “You had better come under here,” he said finally, lifting the blanket slightly. “We’ll be warmer together.”

A quiet ‘oh’ was all Connor could manage to say. There were so many things he wished to say, so many questions he wanted to ask. What was the place from his memory and why was it so important? Why did it carry such emotional weight?

Despite everything that had transpired between them, there were still many aspects about his father that eluded him. Much of his past was a complete mystery to Connor. He wanted to know more. And yet, the words wouldn’t come.

Connor hovered awkwardly on the edge of accepting or rejecting Haytham’s invitation to share the blanket. Part of him warned against it. He did not trust himself not to do something foolish or unwanted. Then again, as Haytham had pointed out, they  _would_  be warmer if they combined body heat.

Eventually, he hesitantly took the offer, settling down underneath the Templar’s outstretched arm. The blanket was not nearly large enough for two full-grown men, even huddled together as they were, but the warmth of Haytham’s body more than made up for it, and Connor pressed instinctually closer. “You are not injured?” he asked softly.

“Only my pride,” Haytham said wryly, taking quiet enjoyment from having his son pressed so closely against him.  Now that he was comfortable and out of danger, his exhaustion threatened to engulf him, his shoulders slumped and eyelids heavy.

“Time to sleep I think,” he murmured, moving to stand so he could settle inside their shelter. Removing his outer layers of clothing, he felt around for where he’d left his bedroll earlier and made himself comfortable, finding his own blanket and wrapping it around himself. He lay still for a while, waiting impatiently to feel warm again. Deciding his own body’s heat was insufficient, he twisted to look at Connor.

“Are you coming inside?”

Reluctant to let the fire die, Connor deliberated staying outside for a while longer. Ultimately, however, he decided rest was more important. They had another long day ahead of them. Tiredness would only slow them down.

Pulling his blanket tightly around his shoulders, he nodded and fed the campfire a few more twigs before crawling into their makeshift shelter. It was a little cramped, but Connor had grown accustomed to sharing close quarters with his father and there were certainly less comfortable places to sleep than inside a tent. They would be warm and dry— that is what mattered most.

He dragged his bedroll right up next to Haytham’s and, after removing his bow, quiver and guns, lay down with a small huff. “Kwah tokén:’en sén:ta’wh, raké:ni.”

Haytham thought to ask what he had said but sleep took him before he could get the words out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kwah tokén:’en sén:ta’wh, raké:ni = Good night, father


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angsty shit.

Haytham woke up the next morning feeling warm and refreshed – the former was caused by the way he and Connor seemed to have instinctively gravitated towards each other for the shared heat, their bodies curled comfortably around each other. Despite having found himself similarly entangled with his son the last few nights before they left Fort George, Haytham was still unused to waking up so close to another person. It was... not unpleasant, but they couldn’t stay there forever.

Carefully pulling himself free from the twist of blankets, Haytham quickly pulled on his coat before poking his head outside, bracing himself for the inevitable shock of cold air.

The sky was grey and overcast, the cold sun reflecting brightly off the snow-covered ground. The earlier they started moving the better.

Haytham returned to Connor’s side and gave him a gentle shake. “It’s time we were off,” he murmured.

Connor’s eyes flew open, pupils darting around the small tent until they landed on Haytham, who was hovering over him expectantly, looking as pristine and well put-together as always. It was almost as though he hadn’t just spent the evening roughing it in the harsh wilderness.

The hand that had been blindly reaching for a pistol stilled and Connor sat up with a tired groan. Stifling a yawn with the back of his wrist, he fixed his father with a deadpan stare. Unlike Haytham and his impeccable appearance, Connor had not fared quite so well over the night. His hair was mussed and his clothing rumpled from drying while he slept, both accentuated by the yellowed, healing bruises on his face.

“Mm,” he mumbled in agreement, only halfway cognisant, taking his time as he got to his knees and drowsily gathered up his weapons. Rolling up his blanket and bedroll, he pushed back the tent flaps and crawled outside into the snow.

Haytham privately thought that Connor was always quite endearing upon first waking up, his eyes bleary and unfocused with sleep. It made him seem younger somehow, unguarded, before his gaze sharpened again and the weight of the world settled back on his shoulders.

Between the two of them, it didn’t take long for their makeshift camp to be packed up once again and their horses prepared for travel. For the most part they rode in companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

Haytham had been confident that Connor wouldn’t try to escape – he wouldn’t have suggested that he accompany him otherwise – but he was gratified nonetheless that no attempts had been made.

He wondered if Connor could even be considered a prisoner at this point. He hadn’t exactly granted him his freedom, but at this stage his son’s obedience could almost be called voluntary. The thought filled him with satisfaction.

Perhaps once this business in Boston was concluded he would let him return to his own devices, and trust that he would come back in his own time. As much as he was enjoying having him under his control like this, how much sweeter it would be to have the boy return to him of his own accord.

It wasn’t often Connor found joy in winter’s arrival, much preferring the milder seasons of spring and fall, but each gust of frigid wind, each drop of freezing rain and flake of snow, was welcomed with open arms. He drank it all in like a man parched. Until then, he hadn’t fully grasped how much he had missed simply being in the outdoors. The city was a huge and fascinating place, filled with many interesting things to see and do, yet Connor would always be more at home in the wide-open Frontier. After spending the last two weeks cooped up within Fort George’s walls, that actuality became clearer than ever.

There were times he wished to take to the trees, and when they stopped to feed and water the horses, he frequently did. Once or twice, he even attempted to coax Haytham up into the lower branches.

The moon was just beginning to peek past the clouds, the sky darkening into the hazy hues of sunset, when they rode into a small town in lower Connecticut. They— Connor in particular— were given a few distrusting looks by the locals lingering outside but, for the most part, were left alone.

“Do you think they have an inn?” The town was rather small...

Haytham hoped so. A soft bed was always preferable to the ground, where possible. “It’s worth a look,” he replied.

The inn wasn’t difficult to find, being a larger building than any of the ones around it. It was a relief to step inside out of the cold air, even if they were immediately aware of everyone inside turning to stare suspiciously at them. Haytham ignored them, walking up to the bar to speak to the innkeeper.

“We require a room for the night,” he said crisply once he’d hailed the man. The innkeeper appeared reluctant, looking Connor up and down with a wary eye, but soon brightened once Haytham withdrew some coins from his pocket.

“Right you are, gents,” he said, tone surprisingly warm as he accepted the payment and ushered over the woman working behind him; presumably his wife. “Show these men to their room will you, Molly, love?” he asked, now counting the money in his hand.

Molly didn’t appear particularly enthused but made no complaint as she walked out from behind the bar. “Come on then,” she ordered briskly, wiping her hands on her apron. They followed her upstairs and were shown into a spare room with two beds. It was plain but clean, and would be a welcome respite from the elements

Connor had expected trouble the moment they stepped foot in the inn. Not only were they outsiders, but they were strangers by blood as well. Haytham was a born and bred Englishman and Connor, a Native. Neither were particularly trusted among the colonists. It would have come as no surprise to him if, at the very least, they were turned away. It certainly would not have been the first time Connor had experienced such inhospitality.

Luckily, however, the proprietor only seemed to be interested in their money.

Uncomfortably aware of the stares and whispers of the bar patrons, Connor trailed after Haytham with his head held high as they were led up the stairs by the innkeeper’s wife and shown to their room. He thanked her quietly before shutting and bolting the door behind him.

His demeanour visibly sagged once they were away from prying eyes, pride replaced by weariness. “I believe I may have preferred the tent,” he said, unable to keep the hint of bitterness out of his voice, and removed his bow and quiver, setting them aside on a nearby chest of drawers.

“I can’t say I blame you,” Haytham admitted, beginning to remove his own weapons. “Decidedly unfriendly bunch weren’t they. Still,” he continued wryly, “I’m getting too old to sleep on the hard ground every night.”

Haytham hoped none of the people downstairs would be foolhardy enough to attempt anything during the night. It was highly unlikely that they would be in any danger as both his and Connor’s senses were too finely honed to allow any harm to come to them, even when sleeping, but Haytham very much preferred to sleep all through the night.

“In any case,” Haytham couldn’t resist adding, “weren’t you the one who mentioned looking for an inn in the first place?”

“I had… forgotten how unpleasant some of them can be,” Connor responded, pulling his pistols from their holsters and placing them next his bow. It wasn’t quite the truth but neither was it a lie. When he’d suggested finding an inn, he hadn’t paused to consider what kind of reception they would get, but prejudice was not something easily forgotten.

He drew out his tomahawk and set it on the dresser. “I imagine you are pleased to have your own bed tonight,” he commented idly, shrugging out of his distinctive coat and neatly draping it across a chair.

Haytham’s fingers stilled on the buttons of his coat as he sent Connor a sideways glance. God but his son could be daft sometimes.

“Do you really think I’d have invited you to my bed if I hadn’t wanted you there?” he asked impatiently, careful to keep his voice low in case of eavesdroppers. “Perhaps you _are_ unnecessarily... tactile while asleep, but I have yet to actually remove you, have I not?”

Having finished unbuttoning his coat, he pulled it off and set it aside, continuing on to his waistcoat. “There are certainly worse ways to wake up,” he muttered quietly to himself, not particularly caring if Connor heard or not.

He looked back over at the Assassin, smiling slightly. “Regardless, I do hope you’ll manage without your human pillow for a night,” he teased.

Connor flushed a deep scarlet at being called out on his sleeping habits. He would have been a fool to think Haytham hadn’t noticed— after all, who _wouldn’t_  notice over two hundred pounds of Assassin sprawled across them each morning?— but he had hoped it wouldn’t come up in conversation.

Not only was it humiliating, there was also the chance Haytham might discover his night-time cuddling wasn’t entirely unintentional as well. There were many times over the past several days Connor had woken to find his cheek pressed against a warm chest, his arms looped around a firm body, knowing full well who it was they belonged to, and hadn’t moved.

“I seem to recall an occasion when you pushed me onto the floor,” he pointed out, unbuckling his belt and untying the red sash underneath. He placed them along with all the corresponding pouches of ammunition and darts to the side. “Does that not count as removing me?” he added wryly. Tugging off his moccasins and buckskin leggings, Connor set them beneath the chair his coat lay on and went to sit down on the edge of one of the beds, clad in nothing but shirt and trousers.  

“Well yes,” Haytham replied, amused. “I had to reclaim my blankets somehow, didn’t I?”

Haytham didn’t know how he did it, but every night when they were both asleep, Connor somehow managed to steal the majority of the bedcovers where they ended up in a tangle around his legs. Very early one morning Haytham had woken up feeling frozen on his side that was not covered by Connor’s warm bulk. Usually the habit just exasperated him, but that night he’d felt particularly intolerant and so had turned Connor out of his bed with a harsh shove.

Predictably, Connor hadn’t been particularly impressed but at least Haytham had been able to cover himself properly again before falling back asleep.

Haytham pulled off his waistcoat and then his boots, putting them neatly aside with the rest of his clothing. Similarly attired to Connor in his own shirt and trousers now, he turned to regard his son where he sat on the bed he had claimed.

“I’m not reproaching you,” he assured him. “Blanket thievery aside, your breaching of personal space does have its uses considering how cold the nights have been of late.”

“Did it not occur to you to wake me up and simply  _ask_  for them back?” Connor was quick to grouse, slightly disgruntled by his father’s obvious amusement at his expense. It was a trivial, petty thing to be upset about, but Connor could still feel the sting of hurt and embarrassment as he picked himself, naked, off the floor and returned to his side of the bed.

Haytham’s next words did very little to soothe his mounting frustration. Picking at the fabric of his trousers, Connor kept his eyes fixed firmly downward. “I am glad I am useful to you,” he muttered, bitterness seeping into his voice. “Tell me, father,” the Assassin continued lowly, “All those times I let you take me; was I ‘useful’ then too?”

Haytham sobered, instantly regretting his choice of words. How careless of him. Caught up in his own amusement, for a moment he’d forgotten that Connor was unlikely to take such a joke well.

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” he said at last. “It hasn’t been that simple for quite some time now.” He fell silent, unwilling to admit any more than that.

It really was quite a mess they found themselves in. From the very beginning, Haytham had intended to win Connor over through the use of emotional manipulation and trickery, but appearing openly caring and affectionate had become much harder as the feelings began to ring uncomfortably true inside him.

He wanted to keep Connor onside, of course, but it was a difficult balance he now walked, caught between revealing too much (even to himself), and appearing too cold or distant and driving his son away again. He’d been fooling himself into believing any emotional or sentimental attachment to Connor could be ignored, for he couldn’t afford such a weakness and how could this possibly end well?

However moments like these forced him to examine his own thoughts more closely than he’d have liked, for the answer he found was always deeply concerning.

He _was_ using Connor, yes, but ultimately he knew he was already far too enamoured and it was too late to go back.

Bristling at having his concerns written off as mere melodrama, Connor’s lips turned in a frown. It wasn’t every day he voiced his feelings on personal matters, and although they usually came in the form of clipped words and angry tones, he expected them to be taken seriously.

“Then what is it?” he asked, biting back the urge to round on the older man, all fury and desperation. Instead, he glowered sullenly at the floor and tried to rein in the emotional turmoil that had threatened to consume him since their twisted relationship began.

“What are you wanting from me?” Connor wasn’t certain he wanted to know.

Haytham watched with some dismay as Connor seemed to defensively retreat back into himself, knowing it was his own fault that their conversation had taken such a turn. He supposed it had been inevitable that things would come to a head like this, but he didn’t really have an answer for his son.

“I-” he began falteringly, then realising he was feeling disconcertingly cornered, he turned the question back on Connor. “Why do I need to want something _from_ you?” He took a deep breath and looked away, muttering, “Why can’t I just want _you_?”

It was physical desire, certainly, but he also felt the desire to keep Connor fairly close and... well not _safe_ ; for the most part Connor was more than capable of taking care of himself, but... Haytham often found himself fighting sudden bouts of protectiveness nonetheless. 

Perhaps he could afford to give in to himself, just a little. “I’m not certain I can answer your question to your satisfaction,” he replied honestly. “Just know that I am content to have you at my side.”

This time, Connor did look up, turning to regard Haytham with a distrustful, calculating stare, trying to gauge the truthfulness of his words. He appeared to be sincere, but Connor knew better than most that appearance meant very little when it came to a man like his father. Haytham could spin tales like silk and his lies were like honey.

The part of him that craved Haytham’s love and companionship wanted terribly to believe him, while the more rational side of him warned against putting so much faith in someone who, not long ago, was his enemy— who was still his enemy. The possibility that this could all just be an elaborate ruse haunted Connor. He couldn’t trust him fully. Not yet, and possibly not ever.

“You will forgive me if I find that hard to believe,” he said flatly and stood up. Be it his skills as a hunter or Assassin, sex, or some other strenuous activity, Connor couldn’t recall an occasion when Haytham had desired his company and  _not_ wanted something from him. When there was nothing to be gained, Connor often felt as though his father merely tolerated his presence. It hurt more than he was willing to acknowledge. “It will take a lot more than just words to convince me, father.”

“I know,” Haytham replied, low and frustrated. “I have given you very little reason to trust me, I understand that. But what would you ask of me? Despite your clear distrust of myself and my motives, I notice you have made no attempts to leave. You could have returned to your Homestead, reassured your Brotherhood that you are safe, and yet you still remain.

"I am not trying to drive you away,” he added quickly. “Far from it. I’m merely curious as to why it is you have stayed. What is it you are waiting for? What more do you hope to gain from this... relationship?” Haytham couldn’t help wincing slightly as he said the word, knowing it sounded far too ordinary and conventional for whatever it was that the two of them shared.

“I know you’ll dislike hearing it spoken aloud but I won’t pretend I don’t know that you’ve sought my approval from the start,” he continued carefully. “How-... How can I prove to you that you have it?”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so ineloquent, all his skill in evasion and misdirection having deserted him, leaving him instead with the bare truth. It made him feel vulnerable, which he loathed, though at the same time he supposed it made him appreciate how Connor himself had been feeling.

Connor remained silent for some time, standing, gaze downcast and arms crossed protectively over his chest. Seconds passed and then minutes; it looked almost as though he wasn’t going to say anything at all. Then, suddenly, he spoke.

“I do not know.” It was barely a mumble.

He should have felt embarrassment. He should have been humiliated and ashamed. Haytham had known about his desire for acceptance from the start, had seen through his pathetic guise to the tumultuous feelings he kept buried underneath. However, all Connor could feel was a lingering sense of relief that perhaps he no longer had to hide.

“I do not know,” he repeated quietly, trying and failing to meet his father’s eyes. “You treat me differently when we are… together.”

He ought to stop. He had already said far too much.

“I suppose maybe I-…” It was too late now. A dam had been broken and the words were spilling past his lips like a waterfall. “Maybe I stay because I know this will not last forever.”

Despite being fully aware of the same inevitability of which Connor spoke, it still pained Haytham to hear him say the words with such an air of defeat. Perhaps it would have been best if they had both agreed to just end this damning affair, but Haytham was uncomfortably aware that it was far too late for that now. They were trapped, both of them, lost, with no end in sight other than tragedy. But what else could they do? What more could they hope for?

Haytham sighed heavily. "Perhaps all we can do is enjoy what we have while we have it," he mused tiredly. He glanced at Connor, longing to reach out to him, for the reassurance of contact, but unsure of how well it would be received. He settled for moving closer, keeping his hands to himself.

It was idealistic of him, perhaps even naive, but there was still some small sliver of hope that yet lingered within him. Hope that this wouldn't all end terribly, that they would reach some kind of resolution. After all, they'd managed well enough so far, hadn't they?

Connor watched from his peripheral vision as Haytham stepped increasingly closer before stopping, hands clasped primly behind his back. They were well within touching distance. Were it anyone other than his father, he would have likely felt crowded and encroached upon, but Haytham’s presence was a comforting warmth at his side. He edged nearer.

“And what is it we have?” he asked, finally, his words slow and measured. He wasn’t certain what possessed him to ask such a question. Perhaps it was the fragile hope he was not alone in wanting something more than just mindless sex. Or perhaps it was because he was a fool, a depraved and misguided fool.  

“Each other?” Haytham replied with some hesitation, knowing the words sounded trite. He was somewhat reassured by Connor moving closer to him but still felt on edge, aware that he needed to tread carefully.

He turned to face Connor, slowly raising one hand to cup his cheek. “We have this,” he said quietly, and leaned in to kiss him. It was a slow kiss, chaste and rather gentle by their standards. After a few moments Haytham felt a raw edge of desperation rise within him, urging him to press closer and deepen the kiss. His thumb stroked up and down Connor’s cheek, his other arm coming up to wrap around his shoulders as he tried to show his son, this _boy_ , this _Assassin_ how far he had managed to worm his way into his heart. In this case it seemed his actions, rather than words, were more expressive.

He hadn’t meant to care, and he certainly hadn’t intended for Connor to find out that he did once he realised, but there was an undeniable sense of relief to be had from letting go at last. 

Tense and still uncertain of Haytham’s true intentions, the gentle words and touch to his cheek had Connor stiffening in distress. He was unused to this level of vulnerability. He’d bared more to this man in a matter of minutes than he had to anyone else in his entire twenty-two years. It was terrifying; Connor tried to shy away. But then warm lips were on his, a firm arm around his shoulders, and his defences crumbled.

Connor melted into the tender embrace, eyes fluttering closed, and pulled his father close, pouring everything he had into that one kiss.

It didn’t matter that Haytham was a Templar, that he could not be trusted, that this entire immoral affair was destined to end in disaster. They were intrinsically bound, not only by blood but by something much more powerful as well. Connor had no hope of resisting.

He withdrew with a quiet gasp, fingers gripping the fabric of Haytham’s shirt as though scared to let go. “Konnorónhkhwa, raké:ni,” he mumbled faintly.

Haytham blinked slowly as he pulled away, feeling rather dazed by the intensity of the kiss. Dimly he was aware that Connor had spoken, and though he didn’t understand the words, he suspected he had some idea of what he had said. The answer lay in the pure emotion in his son’s gaze, and in the way he was clutching desperately at Haytham’s clothes.

Haytham drew him close again, enfolding him in a warm embrace and enjoying the opportunity to hold him to himself, if only for a moment. “Me too,” he murmured unsteadily, throat tightening. He could afford this one moment of weakness, this lapse of judgement, surely. It was dangerous and foolhardy to have revealed so much, to give Connor so much power over him, but it was too late to regret it.

For now he let himself enjoy Connor’s warm, comforting presence against him, holding him a few moments longer before releasing him with a sigh. He didn’t want to push his luck.

Warmth swelled inside Connor upon hearing his father’s response, and his chest felt tight with emotion. Haytham may not have understood the exact meaning of what had been said, and that was precisely what Connor had intended, but it was clear its significance had not been lost on him. It was the closest he had come to hearing those three words from anybody since his mother had been alive, and for the briefest of moments, Connor feared he might weep.

He held his father closer, drinking in the intimacy of the embrace and begging silently that it would never end.

When Haytham withdrew, Connor nearly reached out again, however, the possibility of rejection stayed his hand. Instead, he leaned in to kiss the Templar’s unshaven cheek, hesitant like a man trying to court a woman.

He stepped back, a slight crease of worry in his brow, and murmured a soft, “It is getting late.” The sun had long since set. The room flickered with the dim light of candles. “Which bed do you prefer, father?”

It was rather unfair, reflected Haytham, that the night of all these revelations was also the night they were forced to sleep in separate beds. He would have liked to have slept with Connor within reach, but the single beds were simply too narrow. At least they wouldn’t be sleeping on the floor that night he thought, resigned.

He gripped Connor’s shoulder briefly before turning his attention to the beds. They were both identical; it didn’t really matter which one he chose.  
“I’ll take this one,” he indicated the bed that Connor hadn’t been seated on earlier, approaching it and beginning to settle in for the night.

“Good night, Connor,” he said softly, once he was tucked in to his satisfaction. “And... thank you.” For forgiving his aloof manner, and for having patience with his difficulty to face the reality of his own emotions. He didn’t say any of this, but he hoped Connor would understand. It was possible Haytham would never find it easy to express his own feelings, but for Connor’s sake he meant to try.

Connor thought to try and worm in beside Haytham on the small, single bed but eventually resigned himself to sleeping alone. He knew from experience that he’d likely wind up on the floor halfway through the night, and not from Haytham’s indiscretion either. There was simply not enough space. One bed was much too small for both his father and his own bulky form. Moreover, it would be difficult to explain were the innkeeper or his wife to find them sleeping together with a perfectly good bed not even three feet away.  

Blowing out the candles, Connor navigated his way in the dark to the remaining bed using his second sight. After double-checking that his hidden blades were still safe and secure around his wrists— one could never be too careful in a new environment— he climbed under the covers. He allowed his Eagle Vision to fade and the room was plunged into blackness. “You are welcome, father. Good night.”

The first light of dawn was starting to filter in through the window when Connor woke, one leg hanging off the side of the mattress and arms wrapped tightly around a pillow. He blinked blearily before letting his eyelids slip shut again. Soft snores were escaping his lips moments later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Konnorónhkhwa, raké:ni = I love you, father


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haytham has a huge language kink. Connor takes advantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is actually the chapter we've published previously as a oneshot, titled 'Sa'nikonhraién:tas ken?', so feel free to skip this chapter if you've read it before. This is the unedited rp version of it though, so it's _slightly_ different from the oneshot version.  
>  Anyway because many of you may have already read this chapter, we've decided to publish the next chapter as well.   
> Enjoy!

When Haytham woke up that morning, he was almost immediately struck by amusement by the image his son made, lying sprawled across the entire width of his bed. It seemed a shame to wake him, looking as carefree as he did, but Haytham had no particular desire to linger in this town any longer than was necessary. It was best they got up.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Haytham climbed out of bed and swiftly began to get dressed in defence against the cold air.

“Time to get up, Connor,” he said gently, deliberately not touching him this time. Connor seemed to have an adverse reaction to unexpected physical contact, and Haytham had no reason to jolt him awake. He was feeling especially considerate that morning, his outward feelings of affection towards his son from the previous night having carried over to the day.

The quiet call of his name was more than enough to rouse Connor for a second time. Unlike previous mornings, the Assassin did not sit bolt upright in bed, wildly looking around and preparing to defend himself from an enemy that didn’t exist. Rather, his lids cracked open, eyes heavy and clouded from sleep, and he shifted beneath the dishevelled blankets. He smiled lazily as he caught sight of Haytham’s blurry figure nearby.

“Good morning,” Connor greeted his father huskily, throat dry. His expression, normally so guarded, was relaxed and open.

He took his time rising and even longer dressing, only dimly aware of the slight tightness of his trousers as he pulled on the rest of his clothing. It wasn’t every day Connor woke up sporting an erection, but it certainly wasn’t an uncommon occurrence either. Somewhere in his sleep-addled mind, Connor knew he should be embarrassed by his body’s response, and were he more alert, he likely would have been. It was more an annoyance than anything else, however.

Shrugging on his Assassins coat, Connor paused to adjust his hidden blades. “Did you sleep well?” he found himself asking.

“Well enough I suppose,” Haytham responded, stretching slightly and pretending not to notice Connor’s physical situation. It wasn’t particularly surprising considering Connor’s age, and there was no point embarrassing the boy. Instead he just busied himself with pulling on his boots and beginning to strap on his weapons as he waited.

Once they were equipped and ready to go, Haytham led them back down to the main room, where he handed the innkeeper a few extra coins; “For the horses,” he said. Then they were back outside and ready to be off. Thankfully their horses were right where they’d left them, safe and warm in the stables.

They encountered no trouble as they left the quiet town as it was still too early for many people to be up and about, save a few early risers. Those who were up glowered at them but made no attempt to stop them from leaving. They’d been fortunate; Haytham knew how little it took for a small town such as this to remove strangers they deemed suspicious by force.

The ride out of town went smoothly, for which Connor was grateful. The last vestiges of sleep still clung heavy to the edges of his mind; a confrontation this early in the morning would not go over well.

Apart from an offhand comment or two, they spent the day travelling in companionable silence. Their conversation from the night before seemed to have had a profound effect on Connor’s overall behaviour. The air of inhibition that frequently surrounded him when in Haytham’s presence was gone, replaced by a gentle peace. Although his trust in Haytham’s sincerity was still shaky at best, he felt significantly more at ease with the emotional situation he found himself in.

Even deep in the heart of Connecticut, sleet and snow continued to be lingering problem, which was why, when in early evening, Connor was quick to point out a ramshackle cabin nestled in the forest not far from the road. It appeared uninhabited. At one point in time it may have been someone’s home or perhaps a hunting lodge, however all Connor cared to know was if it would keep them dry.

Reining in his horse, Connor looked at Haytham. “What do you think?” he asked and then peered back into the woods. “It would be better than a tent, would it not?”

Haytham regarded the cabin with some suspicion but he couldn’t help but agree. Besides, it did indeed appear to be deserted; they may as well take advantage of the available shelter. Dismounting from his horse and securing it to a tree, Haytham’s boots crunched in the fresh snow as he went to peer in the window – just to make sure.

“Empty,” he commented, moving to try the door. It wasn’t locked but the doorknob was rusty with disuse and took a bit of force to turn. Eventually he succeeded in opening it and was able to step out of the cold and into the sparsely furnished room. The first thing he noticed was the empty fireplace with a neat stack of dry wood piled next to it; whoever had lived there had probably intended to return, some day. Either way, it certainly saved them the trouble of trying to find suitable firewood. There was also a table and chairs and a medium-sized bed; rather generous for a cabin of that size.

Haytham waited until the door had closed behind Connor before stating dryly, “Definitely better than a tent.” He got to work building up a fire in the grate, and soon the flames were crackling merrily, casting warmth and illumination across the otherwise darkening room.

Steering his horse into the woods after Haytham, Connor came to a stop alongside him by a thick oak. He watched from his saddle as his father dismounted and looked through one of the cabin’s murky windows. Once it became clear that it was unoccupied, he dismounted and looped the reins around a tree, tying them securely. He grabbed a few provisions, along with their blankets and bedrolls, from their saddlebags and, pausing to pat his horse fondly on the neck, followed Haytham inside.

He was immediately struck by how musty and unkempt the small room was. A thick layer of dust coated every surface. It was obvious it had not been used in some time. It was dry, however, and free from animals and other pests— Connor had little room to complain. There was even a substantial pile of firewood sitting chopped and ready for use next to the hearth.

Connor dumped their belongings on the table and pulled back his hood. Brushing the snow from his shoulders, he walked over to join Haytham by the fireplace. The warmth made him shiver unconsciously. “I am sure whoever owns this place will not mind if we borrow it.”

“If not, they’re hardly here to say otherwise,” Haytham replied, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. He could feel himself growing more relaxed every second, quietly relieved that they would spending the night inside. The fire was a comforting heat against his back as he stood by it, Connor a solid presence at his side.

Though it was still relatively early, Haytham couldn’t help feeling rather pleased with the knowledge that they would be able to share a bed again. The confessions from the past night had left him feeling rather raw, his emotions stripped bare, but it was a relief to know he no longer needed to conceal them. Connor too seemed calmer and more relaxed around him; it seemed they had managed to tear down many of the barriers that lay between them. They were still not _completely_ at ease, it was still too early for that, but with time perhaps they could truly come to trust each other. Though, Haytham thought, their status as Assassin and Templar could yet serve to obstruct them. Something to bear in mind, certainly, but he wouldn’t let it spoil his mood in that moment.

Connor made a muffled noise of agreement before lapsing back into silence. He watched the flames dance and flicker in the fireplace. He glanced every so often at Haytham out of the corner of his eye, unable to help himself. The previous night had left him hungry for more. He wanted to step closer, to close the small gap between them, but wasn’t certain how the gesture would be received.

In the end, he kept his distance, choosing instead to fetch two of the four chairs that surrounded the table.  
He plunked one down on the floor next to Haytham out of politeness. The other, he swung around backward and set where he previously stood in front of the fire. After testing its sturdiness, Connor straddled the seat of the chair, crossing his arms over the back.

“It is a bit early,” Connor commented absently, pulling at the fabric of his gloves. The sun had not even begun to set. Normally, they would have ridden for another hour at the very least, but an extra hour was hardly worth spending the night out in the elements for. They would make up for lost time tomorrow.

Haytham thanked him as he was provided with a chair, sinking into it with a grateful sigh. He deliberately decided not to comment on the way Connor was straddling his own chair; verging on indecent really.

Connor was right; it _was_ rather early for them to have stopped, but it was worth it, Haytham felt. Though it did make him wonder what they were going to do in the extra time they had given themselves. He supposed it gave them more time to talk, to get to know each other better, though he didn’t even know where to begin with such an endeavour. At the beginning, perhaps.

“Connor,” he began, feeling inexplicably hesitant – this had the potential to touch on a sore spot for the young Assassin. “Connor is not your true name, is it. Not the name your mother gave you.”

He settled back in his chair, keeping his eyes on the fireplace. “Since we have some spare time, I wondered if maybe you’d teach me your real name. I can’t promise that my pronunciation will be any good, but I can at least try to learn,” he added, smiling wistfully to himself as he remembered his botched pronunciation of Ziio’s full name.  
  
Upon being asked his Kanien’kéha name, Connor turned to stare at Haytham with an expression that bordered on incredulity. His look of surprise quickly faded into one of wariness, then briefly sorrow as he thought of his mother, before disappearing altogether. He resumed watching the fire solemnly.

“Connor was the name I was given when I left my village,” he explained, following several, long minutes of nothing but the sound of crackling logs. He was careful to leave out Achilles’ involvement in his assimilation to colonial life. It was trivial information, but he had already compromised the Brotherhood by becoming so intimately involved with the enemy. He would not involve Achilles as well.

“My mother-…” Connor trailed off, overcome by a sudden pang of grief that he refused to let get the better of him. He tried again. “My mother named me Ratonhnhaké:ton.”

There had been a pause in which Haytham began to think he’d made a mistake in asking and wished he could take his words back. Finally Connor began to speak, though with some reluctance. _Ratonhnhaké:ton_. That was his name. As glad as he was that Connor had agreed to share it with him, Haytham knew it would take some practice before he could pronounce the sharp syllables with the same smooth delivery that his son had just displayed.

Still, he certainly meant to try. However when he tried to recall the name again, he found the pronunciation had all but slipped from his mind, leaving him with no more than a few hazy syllables. Though he knew he would hardly manage to say it correctly on the first try, he didn’t want to insult the boy by completely butchering his name either. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Could you say it again?” he asked finally, after trying and failing to sort out the pronunciation in his head. “Only... more slowly this time.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of Connor's lips despite the lingering heaviness in his heart. His mother might be gone, his people may have fled— nothing would change that— but his father was here with him now, waiting and wanting to know more about him. They had a chance to truly bond in a way he had thought impossible before. The last thing Connor wished to do was ruin that possibility because he could not let go of painful memories. He did not want to spend the rest of his life mired in the past.

“Ratonhn-… haké-… :ton,” he repeated, a bit more willingly, enunciating each syllable slowly and clearly. Tilting his head in the Templar’s direction, Connor propped an elbow on the chair back and rested his jaw in the hollow of his hand. He could not help but be faintly amused by Haytham’s obvious difficulty in pronouncing his name. “It is not that hard,” Connor reassured, a hint of mirth in his voice.

“For you maybe,” Haytham retorted, but was relieved to see Connor smile, the tension between them lifting slightly. He mouthed the sounds silently to himself, getting himself used to them before repeating obediently, “Ra-...tohn-....ha-...ké-...ton.”

He said it a few more times, keeping the syllables separate until he knew them well enough to piece them together. He occasionally got one or two wrong, his tongue mistakenly changing the ‘t’ sounds to hard ‘d’s, but he soon corrected himself and tried again.

Then he attempted them all at once. “...Ratonhnhaké:ton. Is that right? Ratonhnhaké:ton?” He was sure he wasn’t saying it _quite_ correctly, his accent lacking the same effortless glide that comes from familiarity with a word, but he felt it was at least recognisable, if stilted.

He looked at Connor for confirmation, feeling both triumphant and tentative.

It was strange, Connor thought, to hear his name spoken in Haytham’s thick, British accent. Even more so was how much he liked the sound of it.

“Mm,” he hummed as if in contemplation, too amused by his father’s struggle to feel downhearted. “I suppose it will do.” His smile betrayed his teasing, however, and Connor huffed a laugh, eyes crinkling with a fondness he couldn’t hide.

He sat up straight and twisted in his chair to face the older man. “You need to emphasise the ’é’ more.” His brow wrinkled in annoyance as he tried to explain himself further and could not, sorely wishing he had a quill and paper that he might show Haytham what he meant. Eventually, he settled on repeating his name a second time at his natural speed, accentuating the long vowel in question. He then looked at Haytham expectantly. “Sa'nikonhraién:tas ken?”

Haytham felt his own mouth twitch in response, enjoying Connor’s amusement far too much to care that it was at his own expense. He tried again, frowning in concentration as he corrected his pronunciation from a sharp ‘ke’ sound to the longer ‘kay.’

“Ratonhnhaké:ton.”

When Connor added something else in his own language, Haytham looked at him with some dismay. “I hope you’re not expecting me to say that too,” he responded doubtfully. “One thing at a time I think.” He couldn’t deny his curiosity was piqued however. “What does it mean?” he asked. “What you just said.”

He’d always liked listening to the Mohawk tongue. It had been enchanting to hear Ziio converse in her own language to her people, the words a soothing blend of soft unfamiliar sounds. He knew better than to mention any of this to Connor, though he certainly hoped to coax more words out of him if he could.

Connor considered withholding the words’ English meaning if only to torment Haytham for a while longer but ultimately gave in to the urge to please. As much as he enjoyed having something to hold above his pretentious father’s head, he found that he enjoyed sharing it with him more.

“I asked you if you understood,” he answered, chair scraping against the floor as he stood and pulled it closer to Haytham’s own. He straddled it once again before adding a, “I would say that you did.” Connor glanced at Haytham with a lopsided smirk. “Your pronunciation is good, raké:ni. For an Englishman.”   

Haytham scoffed lightly at the praise but couldn’t help feeling pleased. “Thank you for teaching me,” he said sincerely.

Connor had said that word again, he noted. ‘Raké:ni.’ In the context of his speech, Haytham felt it was safe to assume it was a form of address of some kind. The first time he had heard him say it had been when they were in bed together; if he wasn’t mistaken Connor had been in the process of riding him into the mattress at the time. A theory as to its meaning began to form in his head, though there was only one way to confirm its truth.

Haytham gave Connor an appraising look, wondering if his son really was that perverse. It wouldn’t bother him if he was, but it would certainly be a surprise. He felt himself beginning to smirk. “Connor,” he began, tone dangerously curious. “What does ‘raké:ni’ mean?”

It was possible his pronunciation was a little off, but it was close enough.

Connor would have chuckled at Haytham’s messy pronunciation of a simple word like ‘raké:ni’ if he had not been so caught off-guard by the question that contained it. A blush rose unbidden to his cheeks, and he looked away as if burned. The embarrassment was palpable. He wasn’t so blinded by pleasure that he did not remember the first time, or all the subsequent times, he’d reverted back to his native language when crying out to his father in bed.  
He should have known better than to call Haytham by that title— the Templar would likely think him depraved— but it wasn’t intentional. It never was.

“’Father,’” he mumbled, staring resolutely at the fire, “It means ‘father.’”

Just as he’d suspected. Haytham’s smirk grew devious, feeling his body growing hot at his son’s shameful admission.

“Is that so?” he asked slowly, savouring the moment. If anything he was rather impressed by this new level of debauchery he seemed to have uncovered. 

Connor was looking away, red with embarrassment. That wouldn’t do. He had shifted closer earlier, so it was an easy matter for Haytham to reach forwards and grasp his chin with one hand, compelling him to meet his gaze.

“You hoped I wouldn’t find out,” he said slyly, more as a statement than a question. “You thought you could keep it as your terrible little secret, didn’t you.” He chuckled darkly, leaning in closer until they were mere centimetres apart. “My wicked son,” he murmured, and closed the distance between them to crush their mouths together.

Connor tried to argue, but all that came out was a muffled ‘mmph’ as his mouth was claimed in a demanding, brutal kiss.

Slowly, the tension bled out of him, and he parted his lips without hesitation, inviting Haytham further. It was hard to feel ashamed when there were fingers holding him firm and a tongue lapping at his teeth. He reached up to clasp the back of Haytham’s head, knocking his hat to the floor. He started to turn, to tug Haytham closer, but was halted by the chair between his legs. Connor made a noise of frustration and pulled away with a wet gasp. He heaved for air, caught up in his father’s heady gaze.

That… was hardly the reaction he had expected.

“You are not disgusted?” he asked breathlessly.

Haytham grinned, eyes glinting in the light of the fire. “It would appear not,” he replied, voice growing husky with want.

He felt quite the opposite in fact; the utter depravity of this newfound knowledge served only to spur him on all the more.

“I am surprised, however,” he continued, tone warm with lazy amusement. “I wasn’t aware you were capable of such deviancy. In retrospect perhaps I should have, considering how terribly filthy you can be when we’re together.”

He didn’t give Connor a chance to protest, already leaning in again to recapture his mouth with his own. This time he kissed him slowly and deeply, letting some of his affection for the boy bleed through. He hoped that it would silently reassure Connor that he really didn’t mind his use of the word, whether uttered deliberately or not. He didn’t enjoy seeing his son look so ashamed.

Connor flushed brilliantly at the words, even as he was drawn in for another kiss. It had not occurred to him that some of the things he did in bed might be considered vulgar or obscene. Apart from the glaring fact he was engaging in sexual relations with his father, nothing they did seemed out of the ordinary, and Haytham had certainly never complained.  
Of course, it was not as though he had much to compare his experiences against. Connor simply did what felt natural. Fingers tangling in Haytham’s hair, Connor decided it didn’t really matter. Haytham could think what he liked, as long as he didn’t stop kissing him.

He licked at the inside of the Templar’s mouth hungrily, and dragged his hand through Haytham’s greying strands, tugging the hair tie free. The thin strip of red leather fluttered to the floor. Connor twisted in his chair, having to resist the base urge to palm his growing erection through the front of his breeches. He withdrew unhurriedly, trailing open-mouthed kisses along Haytham’s jaw. “It has been days,” he murmured and lowered his head to suck languidly at the skin of his neck.

Haytham groaned softly in approval, tilting his head back to allow Connor more room. He was pleased to note that Connor seemed as enthusiastic as ever, his mouth hot where it was pressed against his skin.

Two days was not such a long time, yet he couldn’t deny that he’d missed this all the same.

So had Connor apparently, as Haytham discovered when he reached down to brush teasing fingers against him through the cloth of his trousers and found him already hard and aching in his chair. Haytham smiled to himself, gripping him through the material and giving him a few light strokes.

“Eager aren’t we,” he purred, wondering idly how many marks Connor intended to leave on his throat.

Connor jerked at the touch of teasing fingers, his only response to Haytham's remark a low growl and a sharp nip to the underside of his jaw. When feather-light touches turned to firm strokes, Connor could not suppress the groan of pleasure that escaped. His breath caught in his throat, and he rocked into Haytham's palm, legs spread wide, eager for more. The chair creaked precariously beneath him, but Connor paid it no mind.  
Soothing one of several dark, purpling marks left on Haytham's skin with his tongue, Connor brought a hand up to tug deftly at the cravat around his neck. "Off," he murmured in Kanien’kéha.

Haytham didn’t understand what Connor had said, but the hand pulling at his clothing was explanation enough. Pulling back slightly, he released Connor in favour of swiftly untying his cape and letting it fall from his shoulders, pulling the cravat free of his neck and moving onto his heavy overcoat without pause.

“You too,” he ordered softly, eyes raking his son’s clothed form pointedly. He had to stand to shrug off his coat, but remaining seated in their chairs was becoming less and less practical anyway. Haytham eyed the bed, deciding it would be a far more comfortable arrangement. He moved towards it, unbuttoning his waistcoat as he went, and trusting that Connor would follow.

Connor watched with a predatory gaze as, one by one, Haytham began shedding his many layers. It wasn’t until his father had stood that he did the same. Connor disarmed himself of his weapons and slung his array of belts, straps and holsters onto the table. Slipping out of his Assassins coat, he draped it over the back of a chair. The rest of his attire was not treated with the same amount of respect.

Connor stripped in record speed and followed Haytham over to the threadbare bed, leaving various articles of clothing strewn about in his wake. He waited for Haytham to finish undressing before pressing flush against him from behind, lips coming down to press kisses to his shoulder, a well-defined arm wrapped firmly around his waist.

Connor’s warm skin was a stark contrast to the chilled air as he pressed himself up against Haytham’s back, making him shiver slightly. Haytham twisted in his son’s grip so he was facing him, kissing him fiercely as he walked them over to the bed and pulled Connor down onto it with him. The flimsy mattress dipped beneath their combined weight; they would have to be careful the bed didn’t break beneath them. Moving so Connor was pinned underneath him, Haytham fitted himself against the long hard line of the Assassin’s body, relishing the coiled power he now held trapped. He paused to smirk down at Connor, eyes gleaming.

“Well,” he said slowly. “What are we to do with you, Ratonhnhaké:ton?” His pronunciation was decidedly smoother this time, he thought, secretly pleased.

The sound of his name, uttered in that sinfully smooth British accent, made Connor’s blood run hot in his veins, and he bucked his hips, grinding shamelessly against the body above him. Pinned flat on his back, completely at another’s mercy, was not a position he normally enjoyed being in, but here, with his father, Connor found it easier than it should have been to let his guard drop.  
He held Haytham’s gaze, dark eyes burning with desire. “Do not tease me,  _raké:ni_ ,” Connor replied lowly, “You know well what it is I want.”

Despite his efforts to appear unaffected, Haytham’s breath caught in his throat upon hearing the word, his new knowledge of its meaning making it sound deliciously obscene.

“All too well,” he agreed breathlessly, lowering himself slightly so their cocks could slide together as they moved. He had been prepared for Connor to attempt to roll them both over, to try and wrest back some control, instead he seemed content to lie beneath him, eyes blazing with lust. His lack of resistance fuelled Haytham’s hunger for him, spurring him into lowering his head to drag his lips hotly against his throat and along his collarbone.

“Say more things... in Mohawk,” he commanded in between the kisses and bites he was littering across his son’s skin.

Baring his neck to the onslaught of bites and kisses, Connor’s lips curled in a feral smirk at the request. He rolled his hips, wishing he had better leverage, the lewd slide of their erections enough to make him dizzy with want.

“Raké:ni,” Connor hissed as they rocked together. The fingers of one hand fisted in Haytham’s hair while the other raked red lines down his back. He held his father close and continued on in his native tongue, “Do you like when I call you that?” It was a question, but Connor already had his answer.

“Does it please you, knowing I am your son?” It was horribly immoral, but there was no denying there was a part of him that took pleasure in saying such vile and obscene things. The fact Haytham could not understand a word of it only served to amplify the feeling.

“If-…” He bit back a quiet groan. “If I had known… I would have taken advantage of your weakness sooner.”

If Haytham had thought he was aroused before, he was doubly so now, with Connor growling Mohawk in his ear. He wondered what he was saying, but he supposed it didn’t really matter. Connor could be describing the weather for all he knew; either way his tone was filthy enough to send Haytham almost into a sort of frenzy, now licking and biting his way down Connor’s broad chest, marking him everywhere he could reach.

His son had a certain, unexpected level of skill in this, Haytham noted. Of speaking in that low tone that revealed his own desire, words a rough unfaltering stream that seemed to pass Connor’s lips without pause. It was surprising – Connor had never exactly been verbose – but even Haytham could never have predicted how impossibly hard it was making him.

Raising his head for a moment, he realised he had reached Connor’s abdomen. He hadn’t gone lower with his mouth since... the first time, he realised. Well, Connor was indulging his own request; it seemed only fair to do something for him in return. Lowering his head again, he took the head of Connor’s cock into his mouth and began to suck.

Biting back a strangled moan, Connor jerked hard, growling something unintelligible, as his erection was suddenly and unexpectedly engulfed in wet heat. His hands dropped on either side of him, fingers fisting in the worn blankets, chest heaving.

The last time Haytham had seen fit to pleasure him with his mouth, Connor had been up to his eyes in opiates. He could recall bits and pieces of the experience, but they were hazy and disjointed, nothing compared to the acute bliss wracking his senses now.  
Connor propped himself up on trembling elbows and looked down the length of his body to where Haytham was crouched between his legs, desperate to imprint this moment in his memory forever. Cheeks hollowed and flushed— brows drawn together in concentration— his lips stretched to the limit around the head of his cock— Spirits above, Connor had never seen anything more arousing in his life. His thighs shook with the effort not to thrust.

“M-More,” he stuttered once again in Mohawk.  

Slowly Haytham let his lips drag further down along Connor’s length, lapping at him with his tongue as he took more and more of him into his mouth. He supposed he could see why Connor always seemed so eager to do this himself; it was immensely satisfying to hear his son grow so desperate beneath his ministrations.

Sucking harder and taking him yet further down his throat, Haytham’s hands settled firmly on Connor’s hips. The Assassin was doing a marvellous job at controlling himself thus far, but there was always a chance he would try and seek some recompense for those times Haytham had treated his own mouth roughly. Haytham felt no desire to be choked; he would do this in his own time or not at all.

Waiting for his throat to adjust to the intrusion, his fingers tightened their grip on Connor before he swallowed around him.

He watched his father with half-lidded eyes, captivated by the indecent image the Templar made. The slow slide of lips along his engorged flesh had him fighting off breathless groans and hissing soft, broken words of encouragement in Kanien’kéha as Haytham took him impossibly deeper. When Haytham swallowed around him, Connor practically keened. He clenched his fists harder in the bedcovers, instinctively trying to thrust up into Haytham’s waiting mouth and whining in frustration when his hips were halted by a steady grip.  
Already, he was nearing release. Balls drawn up tight and heat coiling at the base of his spine, Connor would have been embarrassed by his lack of stamina were he not so distracted.  
Connor let his head fall back against the mattress. “Father,” he gasped in warning, this time in English.  

Slowly Haytham eased his mouth up and off Connor’s straining cock, sitting back up with a smug look on his face. He wasn’t finished with Connor just yet. Climbing back up, he leaned down to kiss Connor firmly, relishing his frustration.

“Stay where you are,” he ordered, low and heated, then climbed off the bed and walked back over to where he’d left his coat. From inside an interior pocket he withdrew a bottle of oil – whilst travelling he preferred to keep these things on hand, though usually the oil’s use extended only to the maintenance of his weapons – and brought it back over to the bed with him. He paused at the edge of the bed, taking a moment to admire the spectacle his son made, lying breathless and impatient upon the mattress.

Connor made a sound that bordered dangerously on a whimper as cool air hit the saliva-slick skin of his erection. Craning his neck, he peered down at Haytham, who appeared very much like the cat swallowed the canary, and gave him an annoyed look. His distress was rewarded with a searing kiss that left him gasping when they parted. He could only watch dazedly as, with an order of not to move, Haytham clambered off the bed and returned moments later with a vial of oil in hand.

Connor smirked, cock twitching in anticipation. “Were you planning on this, raké:ni?” he couldn’t help but quip.

“Hmm,” Haytham matched Connor’s smirk with one of his own. “It had crossed my mind. However,” he continued, resettling himself next to Connor with the bottle in his hand. “I thought we might do things a bit differently tonight.”

Pulling the cork free, he coated his fingers generously with oil, though rather than ordering Connor to spread his legs so he could begin preparing him, he instead twisted slightly on the bed and reached down to press one well-slicked finger into himself. He glanced at Connor. “Unless you object of course,” he added lightly, now stretching himself with cautious efficiency – it had been quite a long time after all.

When he felt he was able, Haytham swiftly moved onto two fingers, then three, biting down on his bottom lip to stifle his groan at the initial discomfort. It soon faded as his searching fingers brushed his prostate, replacing the slight ache with a sudden burst of pleasure that drew a gasp from him despite himself.

The possibility of his son’s refusal hadn’t even crossed his mind when he’d first had this idea, but now that he’d actually posed it to Connor he felt a small unexpected twinge of uncertainty. Was Connor ready for this, or would he shy away?

Connor was just about to ask what more could there possibly be left to try, but then Haytham was reaching behind himself with oiled fingers and the Assassin lost all ability to speak. Desire swelled within him swiftly, immediately, as well as a faint sense of apprehension. He swallowed audibly and shook his head.

After nearly a week of nightly sex, Connor felt he had a good grasp on what to expect in the bedroom. The entirety of his experience, however, had come from his role as the receiving partner. This was different— it was as though he were a virgin all over again. Dominating was in his nature, he knew, but Connor feared that, in this instance, instincts alone might not be enough.

In the end, his lust for his father outweighed his anxiety, and Connor edged closer, wrapping questing fingers around Haytham’s cock. He stroked gently, his eyes following the movements of Haytham’s hand, his muffled gasps and moans music to his ears.

A hiss of pleasure escaped Haytham as he felt Connor’s hand on his arousal, hips jerking up into his touch. He was pleased that Connor appeared to be on board with the idea, but couldn’t help feeling rather apprehensive now that it seemed to be going ahead. He didn’t believe Connor would deliberately hurt him – certainly not like this – but... well he wasn’t exactly _small_.

Still, the thought thrilled him more than it intimidated, his blood burning hot as he imagined how much fuller he would feel with his son inside him instead of merely his fingers. Impatient now, and stretched to his satisfaction, he withdrew his fingers and poured a bit of extra oil into his palm. Reaching over, he wrapped slippery fingers around Connor’s cock, making sure he was generously and thoroughly lubricated. Then he sprawled back out on his back, trusting Connor would take the lead from there.

Connor’s heart beat wildly in his chest as he crawled into position between Haytham’s legs. With one last parting stroke of his hand, he released his father’s weeping cock to run his palm up a tense thigh.  
For several long moments he knelt there, hesitant and unsure of what to do. Haytham’s eyes bore into him from where he lay, and Connor tried desperately to recall the details his first time, but found his memory failed him. It seemed he would just have to proceed slowly. He did not want to do anything careless or foolish. If he did, Haytham would likely never let him near this particular part of his anatomy again.

Hooking an arm under the elder man’s knee, Connor trailed a searching finger down the cleft of his backside and circled the slick ring of muscle he found there, curiously slipping in to the first knuckle before withdrawing entirely. A sudden wave of desire washed over him, and Connor hoisted Haytham’s hips. He fisted his erection then guided it clumsily between his father’s parted cheeks to rest against his waiting hole. Bracing his knees on the mattress, he eased forward firmly but carefully until just the head of his cock disappeared inside. Connor’s breath caught in his throat and he groaned weakly, fighting the urge to drive home into the tight warmth.

Connor was nervous at first, though Haytham supposed that was understandable considering how suddenly he’d suggested this change in roles. Still, he knew the boy knew what to do, having been on the receiving end enough times by now. It was merely his lack of confidence that made him hesitate.

Despite knowing all this, Haytham still had to bite down on an impatient remark, more than ready to be fucked into and filled to the brim. It would do no good to snap at him; Connor would have to figure this out in his own time.

Haytham held himself still and relaxed as he allowed Connor a brief exploration with his finger, watching with some satisfaction as he heard his son’s breath catch and saw his pupils dilate. He was ready.

Determined as he was to allow Connor to dictate the pace of the proceedings, it was all Haytham could do to not thrust back against the Assassin’s cock as he felt it breach him. He appreciated Connor going slowly (whether for his benefit or because Connor was still feeling tentative, Haytham didn’t know) and he knew he could hurt himself if he was too hasty, but he wanted Connor _now_.

“More,” he demanded breathlessly, spreading his legs further.

The Assassin’s head jerked in a fervent nod, releasing his hold on Haytham’s leg so he could grip both hands on his hips. Sweat beaded at his brow as, slowly, he sank in further, pausing in his movements every now and again to allow his father a moment to adjust.

Connor was shaking and breathless by the time he was fully seated to the hilt. Haytham was like a vice around him, his inner walls clenching and unclenching, sucking him in tighter and hotter than Connor believed possible. He rolled his hips experimentally and his chin dipped to his chest with a gasp. He glanced up at Haytham, brown eyes nearly dilated black. “Is this… is this all right?” he asked, despite all his senses screaming at him to go— to thrust— to  _take._

Haytham exhaled slowly, deliberately relaxing his muscles as he felt Connor begin to push further inside him. Deeper and deeper he went, making Haytham exceedingly glad to have prepared himself as thoroughly as he had. He felt obscenely stretched, impaled as he was upon his son’s cock and spread wide by his girth. It was mildly uncomfortable at first, yes, but that was overshadowed by the pure satisfaction he felt, fit to burst.

After a brief pause, Connor finally moved within him; a shallow thrust that dragged a low groan from Haytham’s throat. “I appreciate your restraint, Connor,” he replied raggedly, trying to push back against his cock and get him moving again. “But I assure you I will not break.” He locked gazes with the boy, using his legs to gain extra leverage with which to thrust up. “Now _move_.”

 _‘_ Now _move.’_  All it took was that one sharp command, and Connor’s wavering control over his urges crumbled. He rocked steadily into him, gentle at first, still wary of causing pain, but his movements soon grew bolder. He pulled out further and pressed in deeper with each pass, spurred on by the impatient thrusts of Haytham’s hips.

Panting, he glanced down to where they were joined, transfixed by the sight Haytham’s body made stretched around his impressive girth. With a surge of primal satisfaction, Connor leaned over his Templar father to crush their mouths together in a hungry kiss. He growled against Haytham’s lips, a low, feral sound, and his fingers gripped hard enough to bruise as he set a punishing pace.

Haytham hissed through bared teeth in mingled pain and pleasure, relishing the slight burn as Connor began to move again, cautious at first but swiftly gathering pace. He rolled his own hips to meet each thrust, not so much seeing as feeling Connor’s resistance begin to crack and shatter as the boy grew increasingly rough.

As Connor leaned over to kiss him, the change in position caused him to brush up against Haytham’s prostate, making the Templar arch and writhe against him, his breath stuttering in his throat before his mouth was fiercely captured by his son.

He snarled his approval into the kiss, answering Connor’s own growl even as he parted his lips to allow Connor’s tongue entry.

Connor’s thrusts were harsh now, verging on savage as he plunged mercilessly into his father again and again. A hazy thought drifted through Haytham’s lust-filled mind, noting that he was certain to be sore afterwards, but in this moment it seemed very unimportant indeed.

Connor was nearly mindless in his pleasure, plunging in and out of Haytham’s tight heat with a ferocity he hadn’t known he possessed. He devoured his lips until they were swollen and red and thoroughly claimed.

Haytham’s cock pressed, throbbing, against the sweaty skin of their stomachs, and— somewhere in the small part of his mind that wasn’t dominated by lust— it vaguely occurred to him that he should be doing something about it. Relinquishing his hold on his hips, Connor pulled one of Haytham’s legs higher and reached blindly between their bodies, grasping his weeping erection in a firm grip. He slicked the beading pre-come down the shaft and jerked him in time to his thrusts.

“My name,” Connor husked with a harsh jab of his hips that made the bed creak in protest. “Say… say it. Like before.”

Haytham cursed under his breath, his head falling back against the bed as he pushed up into Connor’s grip. Lost in sensation as he was, it took a moment for him to comprehend Connor’s words, and several more to recall the name in question.

“Ra-... Ratonhnhaké:ton!” he gasped, sharp and desperate, too far gone to be concerned with trivialities like composure and self-discipline. Caught between his son’s hard cock and the confident hand on his own throbbing length, Haytham could feel his peak rapidly approaching. Given the way things were progressing it was unlikely he’d last much longer.

One particularly hard thrust from Connor was it all took before Haytham’s back was arching off the bed, clenching around Connor as he spilled into his hand with a hoarse cry.

The Assassin could scarcely hold himself together as, shuddering and clenching around him, Haytham spilled over his fist with a strangled shout. Slowing the thrusts of his hips, Connor stroked him through his orgasm, the sound of his name, uttered in that gasping, urgent tone, still ringing heavily in his ears. The pronunciation might have been off— not that one could blame him, given the circumstances— but Connor was undeniably certain he’d never heard anything so perfect in all his life. He released his father’s spent cock and pulled him in for a short but possessive kiss.

Free to pursue his own release, Connor gripped the curve of Haytham’s hips and thrust into the tight heat with abandon. Already teetering dangerously on the brink, he lasted a whole of thirty seconds before, with a muffled curse in Mohawk, he shoved deep inside his father and came.

Panting and breathless, Haytham was too languid to respond properly as he was drawn in for a brief but heated kiss. Blissed out as he was, he was more than happy to remain sprawled out on the bed, trying to catch his breath as his son continued to take his own pleasure. Connor was relentless, his rough pace unfaltering until at last he came, buried deep within the Templar.

Haytham lay still for a few moments longer, sated and lethargic as he allowed the two of them some additional time to recover.  Reaching up he slowly brushed Connor’s hair from his face, letting his fingers linger against his skin before he drew his hand back. Unfortunately the cold air had already begun to cool their sweat-slicked skin despite the distant warmth of the fire. They ought to move if they didn’t want to catch a chill. Haytham pushed half-heartedly at Connor to dislodge him, too lazy to be especially insistent.

Despite Haytham’s half-hearted attempts to push him off, Connor lay still for several more moments, content to remain where he was until his breaths had evened and the air began to grow chilly around them. Carefully, he pulled out, taking an animalistic pleasure in seeing his father’s hole open and abused. It filled Connor with a lewd sense of pride, knowing he was the one responsible for Haytham’s current state.

He rolled to the side with a huff, far too relaxed and far too satiated to worry about trivialities like cleaning up. Already, he could feel the edges of exhaustion begin to creep up on him, and Connor shifted, nestling unconsciously closer to Haytham’s side. He tilted his head to regard the Templar hazily before mumbling, “Did I hurt you?”

Haytham stretched gingerly, already feeling the beginnings of stiffness starting to set in. He scoffed quietly at Connor’s question. “I would have informed you in no uncertain terms if you had, I assure you,” he replied shortly. Then he sighed, letting his tone soften slightly. “No. You didn’t. You did very well in fact.”

He paused, torn between cleaning himself up and staying where he was, Connor a welcome warmth at his side. His body seemed set on making the decision itself however, his limbs heavy and his muscles tired. It would be all too easy to let his eyes fall shut and go to sleep but they could freeze to death without some kind of protection from the cold air.  
Haytham carefully rose from the bed with a muffled groan, walking over to the table where Connor had left their blankets and bringing them back to the bed. He unrolled one to throw it over his son where he still lay, then settled back against the mattress and curled up next to him, his own blanket wrapped securely around himself.

Sated and pliable, Connor couldn’t have stopped the lazy smile that blossomed across his face even if he had wanted to. It was such a simple compliment, bordering on brusque even, but to Connor, it meant so much more.

Connor watched from his place on the bed as Haytham rose and hobbled over to the table on the opposite side of the room to fetch their blankets. He contemplated making a teasing remark about ‘old age’ but quickly reconsidered it. His father appeared to be in an agreeable mood— either from his recent orgasm or for some other reason—and Connor was not keen on ruining it, especially over an ill-thought-out joke.

Gratefully pulling closer the blanket that was tossed his way, Connor waited until Haytham had lay back down before shuffling nearer and throwing it over them both. He did not dare try and huddle too closely. Too many mornings of being pushed, elbowed and shoved away in his sleep had made him wary of pressing his boundaries while awake.

“Konnorónhkhwa, raké:ni,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

Haytham did not reply, for he had already fallen asleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haytham and Connor are giant babies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of our double update!

When Haytham woke up the next morning he was immediately aware of being very stiff and very sore. He stretched hesitantly, immediately wincing at the sharp ache centred in his rear and lower back. Gods, what had possessed him to suggest such a thing as Connor being the one to take him? Haytham eyed the sleeping Assassin, feeling his ire drain from him as he looked at his peaceful face.

As per usual, Connor had managed to tuck himself securely against Haytham’s side, one of his arms thrown carelessly across his chest beneath their blankets. Despite knowing that the sooner he got up, the sooner his stiffness would pass, Haytham found himself quite reluctant to move. His body ached too much to go back to sleep, but he was otherwise fairly comfortable. More importantly, he was warm.

Haytham sighed, unwilling to feel sorry for himself a second longer. Lifting his blanket he carefully disentangled himself from Connor’s loose embrace, slightly jostling the rickety bed in the process. He glowered at the room, seeing his clothing strewn haphazardly across the floor, and tried to suppress his slight limp as he went to collect it all and put it on.

Connor stirred and whined in protest when the firm source of heat he’d been comfortably pressed against suddenly disappeared without warning. He shifted, grasping blindly beneath the blankets, trying to find it again so he could return to sleep. His brow wrinkled when he could not, and Connor was forced to crack open an eyelid. The bed was empty; he could hear Haytham shuffling about nearby. Realisation dawning on him, the Assassin groaned and let his eye slip shut. At least Haytham had not chosen to push him off.

He sat up slowly, blankets pooling around his waist, and looked over at Haytham, hair a right mess and only half-awake. Even so, Connor immediately zeroed in on the way he moved and walked, stiff and looking every bit as uncomfortable as he likely was.

There was an undeniable vindication that came along with seeing his father in the same state he himself was often in, but Connor could not help but feel slightly concerned. Haytham was not exactly a spry, young man anymore, and they had another long ride ahead of them. Perhaps he should not have been so rough…

“Do you need any help, father?” he asked, although he was fairly certain he knew the answer. Haytham would rather suffer than accept his assistance.

Haytham shot him a silent glare, not bothering to respond to such a ridiculous offer. He was sore, not an invalid. “By all means, feel free to get up,” he snapped irritably, his discomfort causing his temper to flare. He regretted the outburst almost immediately and fell silent, concentrating on pulling his clothes on.

He didn’t exactly want to have a fight first thing in the morning; the day’s ride would be unpleasant enough already without any unnecessary tension between the two of them. “We’ll leave when you’re ready,” he added, less harshly this time as he tried to rein in his caustic mood. The last thing he needed was his son blaming himself and feeling needlessly guilty. The pain would pass – there was no use striking out at the Assassin like a wounded animal in the meantime.

Connor supposed it was too much to ask for Haytham to remain as agreeable as he had been the night before, but that didn’t stop him from feeling stung by the scathing response he was given. Nor did it stop the bitter, hurt glare the Native sent his way as he threw back the blankets and stumbled out of bed.

Still blinking sleep out of his eyes, Connor haphazardly tugged on his clothing, trying to overlook the unpleasant griminess of his skin. There would be an opportunity to wash up later. For now, there was little that could be done.

He pulled back his wayward hair, and once his weapons were properly secured and holstered, gathered up the two blankets left strewn across the bed. Pointedly ignoring his father’s presence, Connor collected the remaining supplies off the table and elbowed his way out the cabin door to load up the horses.

Haytham rolled his eyes as Connor stormed off in a huff; the boy could be so sensitive sometimes. Hopefully he didn’t intend to sulk all day. That would grow dull very quickly indeed. Haytham decided to ignore the fact that he’d been doing much the same thing.

Having re-equipped his own weapons, he followed Connor outside into the crisp air, closing the door behind them. Once the horses’ saddlebags were packed up again, they both mounted up – Haytham suppressing a wince as he did so – and were soon back on the move. 

There was a palpable sense of hostility between them for much of the day – not nearly as severe as it had once been, but it was still jarring compared to the relative peace they’d enjoyed in the last few days. The saddle chafing his sensitive rear and the cold air chilling his stiff muscles did nothing to help his sour mood.

He did feel better after they’d stopped to eat however, and he realised that he’d been acting far older than his age; cantankerous and intolerant. He was a Templar for Heaven’s sake; he could endure far worse than this.

He ought to make peace with Connor, he thought reluctantly, frowning to himself. He balked from apologising outright, but he could at least behave with a bit more warmth towards his son. Though perhaps later, for now he’d rather suffer in silence.

Despite his lingering concern for Haytham’s wellbeing, Connor remained stubbornly silent throughout the entire day’s ride. He kept to himself whenever they stopped to eat and rest, often disappearing into the woods or up a tree only to return again some time later.

He was angry, he was frustrated, but more than anything, he was worried. He had never been with anyone in the manner he had with Haytham, and Connor feared for the worst. Troubled thoughts plagued him incessantly. Perhaps he had done something wrong. Perhaps he’d been too unrestrained. Perhaps… his father had come to realise the mistake he had made and was now trying to drive him away with glares and harsh words.

He wanted to ask, wanted to voice his concerns, but bull-headed pride kept his lips sealed. He doubted he would have known how to anyway.  
It wasn’t until late evening, horses slowed to an easy gait, that Connor finally spoke. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly, feeling more uncertain than ever.

“I’ll live,” Haytham replied dryly, having mellowed considerably after being left to his own thoughts. “Don’t fuss.” In all honesty he was quite sore now, but was comforted by the fact that night was falling and they would soon be stopping. They just had to find a good spot to camp.

After some meandering they finally came across a suitable clearing, far enough from the path that it would not be visible to any passersby – not that many other people would be traversing the Frontier this late in the day. There was still a sense of tension between them, but now it was born more of unease than anger and festering resentment.

It would be best to resolve things before they went to sleep for the night, Haytham decided. Otherwise the tension between them would grow unbearable, especially once in the close quarters of their tent.

They had already dismounted, silently making arrangements to set up camp for the night. Haytham eyed Connor speculatively while he put up their tent, wondering how to break down this wall that seemed to have sprung up between them.

Eventually he couldn’t take it any more and approached the Assassin, steps slow and measured so he wouldn’t be perceived as a threat. He said nothing, just moved until he was within touching distance and then paused for a moment before closing the remaining distance between them to kiss him. It was a soft kiss, lacking any of his usual hunger – he was too worn out to really start anything more – as he attempted to convey an apology without speaking the words out loud.

Connor had fully expected to spend the evening much like he had the day, bitter and consumed by his own turbid thoughts, so when Haytham steadily approached and a sudden but gentle kiss was pressed to his lips, it was all the Native could do not to jerk back in surprise. His body immediately went rigid at the contact, shoulders stiff and muscles tense, the tools he’d used to pitch the tent held tight in his fists.

When Haytham withdrew, Connor released a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding and took several steps backward, expression guarded. His gaze searched his father’s face, looking for any signs of the spite from earlier. Haytham only seemed tired and perhaps a little regretful. If he didn’t know any better, Connor would have sworn this was Haytham’s pitiful attempt at an apology.

Connor breathed a sigh and turned around. Walking over to where their horses were tethered, he packed up the picks, hammer and rope. “I am only concerned for you,” he admitted softly as he buckled the saddlebag shut, barely audible over the wind and the sound of the rustling leaves.

“I see that now,” Haytham replied wearily. “There was no need for me to have been so defensive.” He supposed he had hoped for a warmer response than this, but at least Connor didn’t seem angry. He knew he really ought to apologise properly now, but pride stilled his tongue. Haytham hoped things wouldn’t become this rocky between them _every_ time one of them spoke a bit sharply; they both possessed a temper after all and couldn’t be expected to tiptoe softly around each other forever.

Either way, they seemed to have resolved things for the moment. Hopefully nothing would go properly awry before they made it to Boston. In the meantime, Haytham meant to sleep. Once their bedding was all settled back inside the tent and a fire started for warmth and protection, he was at last able to lie down and curl up for the night, a quiet sigh of relief leaving him as he did so.

Connor didn’t follow right away, instead lingering outside long after Haytham had retired to the tent. He was tired, but he needed a moment alone to clear his head and the forest provided a calm environment for him to relax.

He thought mostly about his father, their forbidden relationship and what that boded for his goal to stop the Templars. Connor still held out hope that, one day, he and his father might reach an understanding, not only as father and son but as Templar and Assassin too. Was that truly possible, though? A bond had formed between them— that was much was certain— but would it be enough to halt a thousand years’ conflict? And if it wasn’t…? Connor had sworn from day one that he would put the Brotherhood above all else, that he would kill his father and thus end the Templar reign on the colonies. Now— now, he wasn’t so sure he could.

It was well past sunset when Connor swung down from the tree he’d been resting in. He checked on the horses then walked over to the small tent, trying to remain quiet as he ducked inside. If Haytham was awake, Connor couldn’t tell. Securing the tent flaps, he removed the bulk of his weapons before crawling onto his bedroll. He lay down and, after a second’s hesitation, leaned over to press a kiss to Haytham’s rough cheek.

The future may be uncertain, but his father was here with him now. Connor would not take it for granted again.

“Goodnight.”

Haytham was already half asleep by the time Connor entered the tent, so he wasn’t sure whether or not he dreamed the lips pressed to his cheek and the muttered words. Either way, they eased his troubled subconscious, allowing him to relax enough to fall into a deep dreamless sleep.

When he awoke, it was in a far better mood than that of the day before, despite the lingering pain and the prospect of another day’s ride. He and Connor would likely always find things to clash over; it was in their nature, not to mention their very different philosophies, but it was good to know they were able to make peace again, even if the previous day’s fight had been very minor. It showed they both desired reconciliation, which boded well for the future of their relationship. Haytham was wary of being too optimistic, having had too many good things torn away from him during his life already, but he couldn’t deny the small glimmer of hope that had started to form.

“Connor,” he murmured to his still-sleeping son. “Good morning.”

Brown eyes blinked open lazily at the sound of his name, heavy and unfocused from sleep. Grunting something unintelligible that could have been English or Mohawk, Connor looked around the inside of the tent from where he lay, cheek pressed against something warm and solid. He didn’t need to check to know he had somehow managed to wind himself around his father while they slept. The Assassin wasn’t certain how or why he did it—if it was the heat he was gravitating toward or if it was another reason entirely—but he had long ago accepted it as inevitability. The only difference now, it seemed, was that he was no longer shoved away as soon as Haytham woke.

Sliding his arms free from around Haytham’s torso, Connor sat up with a mumbled apology. He hid a yawn behind a hand and glanced beside him at the Templar. “Good morning, father,” he greeted, voice gravelled and husky, “Are you feeling any better?”

“A bit,” Haytham replied with a nod, beginning to pull himself free of his blanket. “I-” he paused. “Thank you for your concern.”

He’d learned his lesson yesterday; he wasn’t about to start this day as badly as he had that one. Despite recent evidence to the contrary, he _did_ know how to be gracious.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Let’s be off, shall we?” He ducked outside, ignoring the stiffness in his joints as they packed up their bedding and dismantled the tent again. Once the saddlebags were packed up, they were soon back on the move.

As he rode, Haytham wondered when exactly it was that Connor’s happiness had become important to him, and more significantly, when he’d started allowing it to directly influence his actions and words. It wasn’t like him to _care_ , not anymore. And yet care he did.

Taken aback by Haytham’s gratitude, Connor could only nod dumbly as he grabbed his weapons and clambered out of the tent to help load up the saddles. A content, if not sleepy, smile dominated his face for most of the morning. Though the uncertainty of the future weighed heavy on his mind, Connor felt his time alone in the woods had lifted a great weight from his shoulders.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haytham and Connor arrive in Boston.

The day and days that followed were, for the most part, spent in companionable peace. They bickered from time to time, but Connor supposed that was to be expected— they were both far too stubborn and set in their ways to not fight on occasion. Most of their arguments were petty and resolved in a matter of minutes, but for the one or two nastier quarrels, Connor took the liberty of wiping the slate clean through less decent means later, in the privacy of their tent.

“How long do you expect to stay in Boston?” Connor asked nearly a week later. It was early afternoon and they had stopped by the roadside to rest and eat a light lunch. Weather permitting, they would be arriving on the outskirts of Boston by nightfall.

Haytham stared out at the trees, thinking.

“It depends,” he mused. “I can’t see this merchant giving us much trouble once we find him, but I’m in no particular hurry to return to Fort George when we’re finished here.

“In any case the first thing I need to do when we arrive is contact Charles. Perhaps tomorrow morning.”

He paused, smiling apologetically at Connor. “I think perhaps it would be best if you did not attend that particular meeting if I want to learn anything useful from him. Besides, I mean to ask about his operations in the city – information that you do not need to know. I’m sure you understand. You’ll have free run of the city in the meantime at least.”

Haytham could just imagine how a meeting between Charles, Connor and himself would play out. Any loyalty the two others had for him would be utterly overridden by the blind hatred each man felt for the other. At the very least they would spend the whole time spitting insults at each other; doubtlessly a waste of everyone’s time.

Besides, Charles would have kittens if he found out that Haytham was trusting Connor enough to let him accompany him on a mission, even one as simple as this. He’d never heard the end of it when he’d worked with Connor to find Church, even if the other man hadn’t been able to argue with their results. Yes, this was news best broken gently, Haytham decided. If at all.

“Oh.” Although his expression didn’t alter, on the inside, Connor’s blood boiled at the thought of his father alone with Lee. He did not trust what new schemes and plots the two Templars might discuss in his absence. At least, that is what Connor managed to convince himself as he bit into the remainder of his salted beef. It certainly wasn’t because he was jealous.

He considered demanding to be taken along— to inhibit the exchange of information, Connor maintained, not to make sure Lee kept his distance— but doing so would likely only start an argument. At any rate, Connor had a much better idea, one that didn’t require his father’s permission.

“Send him my regards,” he eventually said, tone sardonic.

Haytham eyed him with some suspicion, having been prepared for some form of tantrum or another. Connor’s calm acceptance was welcome, if unexpected. Perhaps he was just trying to keep the peace. They had been having a good week so far in terms of their interactions with each other; it made sense that they were both reluctant to ruin it.

The Templar inclined his head. “Perhaps I will,” he said wryly.

They made it to Boston in good time, arriving at the gates shortly after the sun had set. Haytham couldn’t deny feeling some relief as they entered civilisation once more. He’d never admit it, but he’d grown rather accustomed to sleeping in a proper bed these days. Though it was a shame to be leaving the privacy of the woods behind...

Haytham pushed the unwelcome thought away. They were here for business, not pleasure.

Once they’d found a suitable tavern – one unlikely to be frequented by anyone who recognised either of them – they settled in for the night, ready to begin investigations in the morning.

The transition from the quiet forests of the Frontier to the hustle and bustle of Boston was not quite as welcomed by Connor as it was by Haytham. The city was a fascinating, exciting place, but Connor found its allure was often short-lived. The streets were dirty and smelt of dung, crowded with throngs of men, women and children while beggars, animals and orphans roamed the alleyways. The noise of thousands of people going about their everyday lives was deafening, and the longer he remained among its many stone buildings and walls, the more Connor yearned to return to the wild and open wilderness.

Despite the night’s darkness, they easily tracked down an inn where city met rolling farmland. Again, they were proved with two small beds, much to the Assassin’s disappointment. He had grown far more accustomed to having Haytham by his side than he was willing to admit.

They woke bright and early the following morning, or rather Haytham did while Connor watched sleepily from his bed until he was heckled into rising as well.

“Your meeting,” he said, voice still tinged with drowsiness, as he shrugged on his coat, “How long will it last?”

Haytham grimaced slightly at the question. Charles had become a dear friend to him over the years, but God knew the man liked to talk.

“Not too long,” he answered, adding in a low mutter “If fortune favours me.”

It would be good to see Charles again, but he felt no inclination to spend any more time with him than was strictly necessary. Though Haytham himself had never faltered in his loyalty to the Order, there were still times when he found Charles’ fanaticism... unsettling.

In any case it was time he headed off. After taking up the tavern’s offer of breakfast – a bland but filling bowl of porridge – they were soon out in the chilly streets of Boston. Haytham turned to Connor.

“Well go on then,” he said encouragingly. “Take some time to yourself, go and climb some trees and rescue kittens from wells or whatever it is you do in your spare time. Keep an eye out for anything related to our merchant. And...” he paused to sigh. “ _Try_ not to draw any attention to yourself.”

Connor rolled his eyes but nodded, if a bit exasperatedly, nonetheless. If only his father knew.

He drew his hood over his head, the pointed hem dipping low on his nose. His lips were pressed in a thin line as he looked out at Haytham from under the edge of the fabric. He had the distinct urge to kiss him in farewell, and were they not currently standing in the middle of a busy Boston street, Connor might have given in.

“I will be around,” he told the Templar in a rushed tone. It wasn’t entirely a lie, Connor reassured himself. He _would_  be around, just… perhaps, closer than Haytham was aware. The Assassin hovered awkwardly for several more seconds before eventually taking his leave. The moment he turned the corner into a nearby alleyway, he scrambled up the side of the wall. A bit out of practice, he lost his footing once or twice on the flat brick but easily recovered. He hoisted himself onto the roof, vision shifting to familiar blues and greys as he searched out his father in the mass of people.

Satisfied that Connor had left, Haytham began walking briskly down the street to an address that Charles had set up as an informal sort of headquarters for himself and any other visiting Templars. It was a rather nice building, Haytham thought, mildly impressed as he drew closer. From the exterior it appeared to be a fairly typical townhouse, with no especially distinguishing features - nicely discreet for covert meetings such as this one.

Knocking sharply on the front door, Haytham was promptly let in by a young man with a vaguely familiar face – Haytham surmised that he was a recruit who had been inducted into the Order a couple of years ago.

“May the Father of Understanding guide us,” Haytham greeted him pleasantly, and was quietly gratified to see awed recognition flicker across the man’s features as he repeated the phrase.

“I’m here to see Charles,” Haytham explained. “Is he here?”

“Master Kenway!” a familiar voice exclaimed, answering his question.

“Charles,” Haytham replied evenly, turning to see his friend descend the stairs looking delighted. He extended his hand to shake, only to be pulled into a brief but unexpected hug.

The younger Templar quietly made himself scarce as Charles led Haytham upstairs, muttering about having tea brought to them.

Following Haytham across the city proved to be a simple enough task. Connor stayed a safe distance away, keeping low to the rooftops, where an occasional Loyalist patrol was his only worry. The Assassin navigated around them with swift ease, his Eagle Vision an indispensable guide in an otherwise unfamiliar setting.

For ten long minutes Connor trailed after the Templar, not once letting him out of his sight, until at last he came to a halt in front of a small home. Connor scrambled to hide behind a chimney stack. His heart beating hard in his chest, he let his Eagle Vision fade and glanced around the corner at the house.

It looked rather ordinary, the Assassin thought as Haytham approached the door and knocked. He would have to investigate more at a later date. For now, he had more important matters to take care of.

A young man answered the door, and Connor watched silently from his hiding spot on the roof while he and his father spoke briefly before stepping inside. Once the door had shut, he sprinted to the edge of the building and clambered down the wall, feet hitting the ground heavily. He walked with intent out into the street.  
Connor eyed the townhouse Haytham had entered. There were several windows in the front, but it would be nearly impossible to try and look inside without drawing attention to himself from passers-by. In the back, however… He glanced at the deserted alley nearby. Surely he could find a suitable place to eavesdrop on his father’s meeting there.

Once they were safely behind closed doors, Haytham felt himself relax slightly. It was good to be in the presence of another elite Templar once more. During his self-imposed isolation in Fort George it had become easy to believe he was the only capable Templar left of their Rite. It was reassuring to know he still had at least one ally whom he could still rely on.

Charles himself seemed openly pleased to see him too, his eyes shining with the same old spark of eagerness. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, they sat down together in a neat and well-organised office and got down to business.

According to Charles, the local Assassins had grown increasingly antsy after the mysterious disappearance of their leader and had been taking out their ire on every Templar they came across. Fortunately they were scattered and disorganised without Connor to guide them and were fought back each time, though the Templars had not yet been successful in killing or capturing any of the perpetrators.

“I’ve assisted where possible,” Charles explained with some frustration. “Suggested strategies and the like. But you should see what we’re working with, sir! Our agents have none of the formalised training that those blasted Assassins do. They’re utterly incompetent!”

Haytham could well imagine. While some of their agents were once soldiers and had at least some fighting experience, many were just ordinary civilians hoping to reach a higher place in the world, and had no skill in stealth or combat whatsoever.

There were three windows, Connor immediately noted, two side by side on the ground floor and another on the second storey. The two on the first level were bolted shut, while the one above was wide open. It was odd, he thought, considering the chilliness of the air outside, but Connor was hardly about to question his unexpected luck. Besides, even Templars needed fresh air, he supposed.

Connor swept the area with his Eagle Vision, and content no one was around, bypassed the closed windows to climb up the siding. Trying to make as little noise as possible, he edged toward the open window, which proved to be a feat in and of itself. Ledges and uneven bricks only provided so much leverage. How long he could hold on, Connor didn’t know.

He froze at the sound of muffled voices. A door then creaked open and the voices became clearer. Connor instantly recognised them as belonging to Lee and his father. If he had to guess, by the volume of the conversation, it seemed to Connor as though they had just entered the room with the open window.  
He inched nearer until his fingers gripped the sill. Feet braced uncomfortably against the brick wall, Connor listened.

Haytham and Lee spoke mostly of the Brotherhood, of their current activity in Boston and of the Templars’ plans to combat them. It appeared his men had not given up the fight without him. Guilt bubbled up inside of him as he realised he had yet to contact his fellow Assassins and let them know of his safety, but the feeling was quickly forgotten in lieu of his current situation.

The Templars were interrupted by a knock on the door as the young man from before entered, wheeling in a tea trolley along with a plate of biscuits. Haytham almost rolled his eyes. The Order was falling apart around them, but at least they still had tea, he thought cynically.

Once the tea was poured and the Templar – Charles informed him his name was Philip Walker – had left again, the conversation turned to Haytham’s business in Boston.

“You are aware of course that a merchant by the name of Thaddeus Cartwright has been overcharging us on our purchases of supplies from his store,” Haytham began.

“Yes of course,” Charles replied, brow furrowed. “But sir, don’t tell me you came all the way here for something so trivial?”

“More an excuse than anything,” Haytham said dismissively. “I’m far overdue for a change of scenery and I wanted to see how things were progressing here in Boston. Not that I doubted you of course,” he added with a brief smile.

Charles shook his head. “If there’s anyone who can turn the current situation to our advantage, it’s you, sir,” he said, deferential as ever. His lips twitched. “It is good to see you again.”

“Likewise, Charles,” Haytham said warmly, and found that it was true. Reaching forward, he clasped Charles’ forearm briefly, making the other man’s cheeks turn pink.

Charles cleared his throat and pulled absently at his collar as Haytham sat back and sipped his tea. “So, Mr Cartwright...” he prompted finally.

“Ah! Yes.” Charles turned and began shifting some papers on the desk. “The latest report on him is that he is unaware of our knowledge of his activities, so you should still possess the element of surprise. Idiot,” Charles’ mouth twisted in contempt. “I suppose it never crossed his mind that he’d be caught. He doesn’t seem to have hired any kind of guard or defence for himself. He shouldn’t give you any trouble at all, sir.”

Haytham smirked coldly. “Good. With luck he’ll be dealt with and the money recovered by the end of the day.”

While struggling to maintain his grip on the window sill, Connor leaned closer as the subject of the swindling merchant was brought to the conversation. Haytham didn’t mention his involvement, not that Connor expected him to, but there was no denying how much it irked him to be left out of the picture. _He_  was the one helping Haytham—not Lee, not the Templars, not anyone else;  _him_ — and he wanted Lee, in all his grovelling, unwavering loyalty, to _know_  that.

Connor shook his head to clear it. He was allowing his jealousy to get the better of him. Regardless of his relationship with his father, the fact still remained that this was his sole opportunity to listen in on a meeting between two high-ranking Templars. He needed to pay attention.

Bracing his feet against the wall, Connor used the leverage to pull himself up and peek over the edge of the window. It was risky. All it would take was one chance glance in his direction and he would be spotted. Luckily, however, Lee and his father appeared far too preoccupied to notice the Assassin peering in.

“You know...” Charles mused, a cruel glint in his eyes. “It might be prudent for this merchant to be made an example of. Show that the Order is not to be trifled with, and all that. I myself would be happy to-”

“Charles,” Haytham’s mild tone stopped him. “I have always appreciated your enthusiasm, but you needn’t doubt that this man will be dealt with in the appropriate manner. He will die,” he said firmly, as Charles looked ready to protest. “Of course he will. But I do not condone unnecessary brutality. You know this.”

Charles nodded. “Forgive me, sir,” he said stiffly.

“Nothing to forgive,” Haytham replied with a dismissive gesture. “So tell me more about the men we have left in our ranks. I’ve been keeping track of them on paper of course, but I was wondering if you had noticed any of particularly outstanding value? Between the two of us I’m certain we can come up with a way to regain some ground against the Brotherhood...”

Time passed quickly as the two Templars sat drinking tea and discussing plans for the Order. Their future was still bleak, Haytham thought, but there may yet be opportunities for the Colonial Rite to regain some of its former strength.

Feeling significantly happier, Haytham decided it was time he left, perhaps find out if Connor had discovered anything about Cartwright.

“...Perhaps we could meet like this again while you’re in Boston,” Charles was saying hopefully as they both stood. “At a tavern, for old time’s sake.”

“I am not certain that would be wise,” Haytham mused, thinking of Connor. “We are too easily recognisable together, we’d just be asking for trouble.”

“Oh,” Charles said disappointedly. “Yes. I suppose you’re right. Well, do not hesitate to contact me if there’s anything I can do for you.”

Haytham smiled and gripped Charles’ shoulder for a moment. “Of course.”

They said their farewells, and then Haytham let himself back out into the street, stifling a chuckle as he realised Charles hadn’t had a chance to regale him with tales of his dogs.

By the time Haytham and Lee’s conversation began to wind to a close, Connor’s limbs were stiff and aching with the strain of holding up his weight for such a long period. Even so, he was still able to duck out of sight the moment the two Templars moved to stand up from their seats. The Assassin bristled when he heard Lee suggest meeting again. He wasn’t certain what Lee meant by ‘for old time’s sake,’ but Connor did not like the sound of it. However, Haytham was already declining before Connor even had the chance to consider how to put a stop to it.

Jealousy abated, he listened as Lee and his father spoke for a few minutes longer then said their goodbyes. He waited until the door had clicked shut and the clip of boots had faded to climb back down.

He could not found so close to the Templar safe house. His father would likely become suspicious, and Connor had never been much of a liar. With a fair amount of luck, he could possibly make it back to the other side of the city before Haytham did if he hurried.

Bypassing a group of Regulars, Connor took off in the direction of the inn. He remembered seeing a group of large trees in a field near it. He would go there. Haytham was much more apt to believe he’d wasted away his morning in the branches than spying on him.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit goes down with Cartwright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably tell, we're not really trying with our summaries any more.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

Haytham’s steps were light as he walked back to the tavern he and Connor were staying in, eager to resolve the matter of the merchant before he could catch wind of their presence in the city and knowledge of their activities. Haytham figured Connor would know to meet him there once he returned from however he had chosen to occupy himself.

As he drew closer to the tavern, he activated his Eagle Vision – more out of habit than out of any expectation to see anything of interest – and was surprised to see a distant blue glow amongst some trees in a nearby paddock.

Haytham rolled his eyes but began walking over nonetheless. Such a definite shade of blue could only be an ally of some kind, and only Connor could have managed to climb such high trees.

“Missing the Frontier already?” he asked in obvious amusement once he’d reached the base of the tree.

Connor scarcely made it up into one of the trees before Haytham rounded the corner of the inn. He sat down heavily at the base of a large branch, legs hanging over the side, and leaned against the thick bark of the trunk, out of breath. He watched through the leaves as, in the distance, his father stopped and glanced around. No doubt he was using his Eagle Vision to spot him amidst the throngs of people milling about.

Connor saw Haytham pause to look briefly in his direction, and suddenly, he was starting into the field.

He had been found.

The Assassin let his eyelids slip shut as he fought to control his breathing. Haytham might suspect something was amiss if he appeared winded from something as effortless for him as climbing trees.

_‘Missing the Frontier already?’_

Connor opened his eyes and glanced down at the ground. Haytham was staring up at him, an amused expression on his face. Thankfully, by now his harsh gasps for air had quieted to shallow pants. If he was lucky, his father would neglect to notice.

“I’m not overly fond of cities,” Connor admitted. “How was your meeting?”

“Fairly uneventful,” Haytham responded simply. “Luckily it seems our merchant is currently unaware of our presence in the city, so it would be best to confront him before he has a chance to hole up somewhere or make any attempts at escaping.”

He gave Connor a quizzical look. “How about you?” he asked. “Did you achieve anything useful, or have you been lounging about in trees all morning?”

It would have surprised Haytham if he had – he was fairly certain he had a good estimation of Connor’s character by now, and it seemed quite unlike him to have whiled away an entire morning like this. Honestly Haytham had expected him to have contacted the local Assassins, or at the very least scouted the city in stealth to see how his Brotherhood had been faring in his absence.

“I-…” Connor's speech faltered. In his haste to reach the inn before Haytham, he hadn’t properly considered how strange it might seem for him to have spent his first time alone in weeks climbing trees instead of seeking out information on their target or his fellow Assassins.

Connor frantically scrambled to create a believable cover, one that would, hopefully, not cause problems or catch up with him later on. Despite his particular craft, deceit and deception were not exactly Connor’s forte. Constructing well-thought-out lies was difficult. Doing so while under pressure was even more so.

Haytham was looking at him expectantly, if not a bit suspiciously.

“I did not find anything,” he stated dumbly and then quickly changed the subject. “We should find this man before he learns that we are after him.”

Haytham gave Connor a curious look but did not press further. “Do feel free to come down then,” he teased, still in a good mood from meeting Charles.  “Come. Cartwright’s General Store is close to the big church; it shouldn’t be terribly difficult to find.”

Once Connor was back down on the ground, they set off down the street together, anticipation humming in Haytham’s veins. Though this was a task that asked very little of his abilities, it was still nice to be taking some sort of action again. Both men had spent quite a lot of time in Boston so they knew their way around its streets quite well, and it wasn’t long before they were standing outside the store.

“I’ll do the talking,” Haytham said rather imperiously, starting towards the door.

Connor made a face in response to the new rule he’d been given but followed his father to the door nevertheless. This was just as much his mission now as Haytham’s; he would speak if he wanted to.

With a jingle of the door’s bell, they stepped inside. The store was like any other store Connor had frequented: small, homey and filled to the brim with goods and supplies. There was a man behind the counter, his head bent over a ledger book and a quill in hand. Thankfully, the rest of shop was empty.

“What can I help you with?” the gentleman— most likely Cartwright— asked without looking up.

Connor hovered behind Haytham like a great shadow, watching both men’s movements with marked attention. He had mentioned time and time again that he did not wish to see the merchant killed. He was sure a rather… demonstrative warning would suffice. Fearing for his life, Cartwright and his services would be under Templar thumb, something Connor had been certain would appeal to Haytham. No blood needed to be shed. However, it was clear from his meeting with Lee that his father had either failed to listen or didn’t care.

“Mr Cartwright, I presume?” Haytham said pleasantly, even as he briefly activated his Eagle Vision to confirm it. The man shone a definite gold; they were in the right place.

“Yes?” Cartwright asked disinterestedly, looking up at last. “If you’re here to ask about the new pistols from Liverpool, I’m afraid I’m not expecting a shipment until the end of this week.”

“No no no, nothing like that,” Haytham said patiently, walking up to the counter. “I’m here to inquire about the odd increases in price of your goods over the past few months.”

“I have the right to set my own prices for my stock,” replied the merchant, unconcerned. “A man has to turn a profit somehow.”

“Yes, but you see your store and my Order have a longstanding trade contract, so I was most surprised to learn that you have been charging us for amounts that are increasingly higher than the prices that were originally agreed upon.”

Cartwright had stilled for an almost imperceptible moment when he mentioned the Order, Haytham noted. Good, this conversation would run a lot more smoothly if the man actually had some idea of who he was dealing with. Of course few people knew what the Templar Order was, unless they were a Templar or Assassin themselves, but it was sufficient that this man at least knew he had angered a powerful and influential organisation of some kind.

“Which Order would that be then?” Cartwright asked, feigning ignorance as he looked back down at his ledger.

“Oh, I think you know,” Haytham said slowly, letting the first hint of a threat enter his tone. “Now will you return all the extra money, or will I be forced to take more extreme measures?”

Connor _had_  hoped, perhaps, Cartwright would simply agree to hand over the money he had extorted from the Templars and that would be that. He and Haytham would be off on their way, free to enjoy the rest of their stay in Boston however they wished, hopefully never to be troubled this particular merchant again, no violence or force necessary. Of course, things did not work out that well.

Cartwright chuckled and dipped the tip of his quill into a pot of ink. He scribbled something down on a page of the record book. It was more than obvious to Connor the man was not taking his father’s threat as seriously as he should—a mistake that he may end up paying for with his life.

“I don’t know who your so-called  _Order_  is, but do you honestly believe you are the first to come into my shop, threatening me over prices?” Cartwright had yet to look up from his writing a second time, a fact Connor was sure rankled Haytham to no end. “I told you, a man has to turn a profit. If you don’t like the cost of my wares, find yourselves another merchant. Now leave— both of you— before I call the guards.”

Connor could see this turning very ugly, very fast. “Father-…”

Haytham gave Connor a quelling look to silence him before turning back to face Cartwright. “I don’t think you fully understand the severity of the situation,” he said coldly. “I do not make idle threats. Honestly I have every intention of killing you and finding another merchant anyway – no doubt they will be far more amenable to upholding a contract such as this given you as an example if they do not – but if you cooperate now I will be more than happy to grant you a swift, dignified death, rather than say... a painful, prolonged one.”

He took a step closer, his hand flashing out across the counter to grab the merchant by the collar and drag him forward slightly. _That_ certainly got his attention. Before Cartwright could say a word, Haytham had let his hidden blade slide free with an audible hiss, the cold steel resting against the man’s throat.

“Not a sound,” Haytham warned. “Don’t think I won’t cut out your tongue if I think it necessary. Now will you cooperate or not?”

Cartwright nodded carefully, cheeks pale.

“Excellent.” The Templar released him. “Let’s see about that money then, shall we?”

However when Cartwright reappeared from where he’d bent down behind his counter, it was not with any form of currency in his hand, but rather a flintlock pistol that he then proceeded to level at Haytham’s head.

“Enough of these threats,” he snapped, confidence apparently restored now that he seemed to have the upper hand. “I don’t know who you think you are, but I will not stand for this foolishness in _my_ store.”

There was a loud  _bang_  of a gun firing, but it was not the merchant’s. Cartwright crumpled to the floor, blood beginning to seep from his shoulder through the fine fabric of his shirt.

Connor holstered his still-smoking pistol. Mouth set in a snarl, he shoved past Haytham and stalked around the counter like a wolf going in for the kill. He kicked the pistol from Cartwright’s hand, sending it skittering several metres away.

“Where do you keep your funds?” he growled, dark eyes alight with fury.

Cartwright shook his head and weakly clutched at his wounded shoulder.

Connor hauled him up by the front of his waistcoat and slammed him against a rack of nearby shelves, knocking off a small number of jars and boxes. “The money—  _where is it_?”

Cartwright winced and pointed a shaky finger at an iron safe underneath the store counter.

“The key?” Connor asked, voice no less threatening.

“I-In my… in my coat pocket,” Cartwright stuttered.

The Assassin fished out the key then relinquished his grip. The merchant immediately folded in on himself and slid down to sit, slumped, at the base of shelf.

Connor retrieved a pouch of coins from the safe, more than enough to cover the Templars’ losses, and threw the key at Cartwright’s feet. The gunshot had been loud; he could already hear a commotion out in the street. “Leave him,” Connor urged as he pressed the bag into Haytham’s hands. “We need to go.”

Haytham gave Cartwright one last considering look, disliking the idea of leaving behind any loose ends. He had to concede that Connor was correct however; no doubt the guards were already on their way. They had to leave.

Storing the money safely inside his coat, Haytham led the way out of the store. Civilians eyed them warily, but no one actually seemed ready to accuse or question them. Perhaps they had not yet pinpointed which store the shot had rung from. The drums of a patrol were growing steadily louder as the guards drew closer. Though Haytham had no doubt that he and Connor could have fought them off, it seemed highly unnecessary. It would be better to be out of sight.

“Come on,” Haytham ordered, pulling Connor along as he began walking swiftly in the opposite direction – though not so quickly that they appeared to be fleeing. The best course of action would probably be to return to the tavern and wait for all the excitement to die down. Perhaps he could return and finish off Cartwright later.

The sound of the growing commotion in the streets began to die away as they fled the area, Haytham leading the way and dragging his somewhat bloodied and bedraggled son behind him.

By the time they reached the safety of the inn, Connor had still yet to completely calm down after his altercation with the merchant. The image of his father held at gunpoint was deeply ingrained in his mind. Each time he thought back to those few critical seconds, fear and a white-hot anger, the likes of which the Assassin had never felt before, surged within him.

Had he been a lesser man, Connor would have killed Cartwright on the spot.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out chapter summaries aren't compulsory after all!

Once in the privacy of their rented room, the door shut and locked behind them, Connor immediately shoved Haytham against a nearby wall, ambushing him with a bruising and desperate kiss.

Haytham made a muffled sound of surprise as he was suddenly and forcefully kissed, but made no attempt to free himself. Recovering swiftly, he responded in kind, pushing back against Connor’s mouth with a hungry growl.

“What was that for?” he asked roughly once they’d broken apart for air. It was unusual for Connor to initiate any sort of intimate contact like this. Then again, he had been behaving rather oddly ever since Haytham had found him up a tree earlier today.

Was something the matter? Or was it merely excess adrenaline from the confrontation with Cartwright? If so, Haytham could certainly understand. The encounter had been far less smooth than he had expected, and he had actually been worried when the man had pulled his gun on them.

Was Haytham losing his touch? Such disputes had been resolved far more easily in the past. It was lucky that he’d brought Connor along he had to admit, feeling an unexpected rush of pride for his son. The Assassin’s reflexes certainly were sharp. _And_ he’d ensured that Haytham left with the Order’s money. All in all, Connor had handled the situation admirably. Perhaps Haytham would tell him so, once he knew what was going on with the boy.

“Does it matter?” was Connor’s impatient answer, already leaning in for another punishing kiss. He did not wish to talk; he did not wish to think. The only thing he wanted to do was  _forget_. He wanted to drown himself in Haytham, in his touch and his kisses, until he no longer remembered the meeting with Lee or the incident at the general store. The anger, the jealousy, the fear— even if just for a moment, he wanted to leave it all behind.

Connor nipped at his father’s lips before migrating down his throat. Pinning him with a firm grip against the wall, his hands grew more and more insistent as he licked and sucked dark, purpling marks along the length of Haytham’s neck.  
With a parting lave of his tongue, Connor dropped heavily to his knees in front of Haytham, immediately pushing aside the fabric of his jacket and waistcoat to urgently pull at his trouser laces, eyes full of lustful desperation.

Haytham supposed it didn’t, at least not until Connor had worked whatever it was that was bothering him from his system. In the meantime, Haytham was more than happy to accept what the Assassin was offering. Pushing his curious thoughts from his mind, he decided to simply enjoy himself. Connor’s kisses were fierce as they were pressed against his mouth and along his throat, marking him possessively. Haytham looked down in mild surprise and pleasure as Connor pulled away to fall to his knees and undo his trousers. He really _was_ riled, Haytham noted, though his thoughts swiftly stuttered to a halt as a hot mouth engulfed him and began to suck eagerly.

The Templar groaned, one hand dropping to thread fingers through Connor’s hair before tightening into a merciless grip so he had something to hold onto, his head falling back against the wall behind him as he let Connor do as he willed.

Even though it had been a mere two days since he had last done something like this for Haytham, Connor was just as eager as ever, if not excessively so. A month ago, the Assassin would have balked at the idea of performing such a lewd, demeaning act on another person, let alone his own father. Perhaps it was the shift in power, perhaps he enjoyed witnessing Haytham come undone from his touch alone, or perhaps he simply liked bringing his father pleasure. Either way, it seemed, he couldn’t get enough of it. It was certainly a good distraction after the harrowing morning he’d just experienced.

Spurred on by the hand in his hair, Connor was quick to slip into a practised rhythm. His technique was still not perfect by any means, but for what he lacked in skill, Connor more than made up for in enthusiasm. Pressing a steadying hand on Haytham’s hip, he worked the cock in his mouth to hardness, alternating between teasing licks and harsh sucks as though starved for his father’s flesh.

He cupped Haytham’s balls through the front of his breeches with his free hand and took him deeper down his throat until he thought he might choke. Ragged yet evenly measured breaths escaped his nose as he swallowed noisily around the thick girth, tilting his gaze up to fervently seek out Haytham’s face.

Haytham didn’t think he’d ever tire of this, this debauched eagerness of Connor’s to swallow him whole as though his life depended on it, lips wrapped obscenely around his length as he licked and sucked at him. It was almost maddening how intoxicating it all was. The knowledge that they were in a tavern and therefore not entirely in private only enhanced the experience, the risk that they could be caught whilst engaging in such a filthy act serving to arouse Haytham all the more.

Haytham cursed under his breath, having to fight to stay silent. Glancing down, he became caught within Connor’s intense heated gaze and could do little more than stare back, entranced, resisting the urge to thrust deeper down his son’s throat. Haytham didn’t expect Connor would take it kindly if he did, judging by the mood he seemed to be in.

“You’re getting terribly good at this,” he muttered breathlessly.

Connor made a small, rumbled noise of appreciation at the comment and redoubled his efforts. Eyes locked intensely with those of his father, he drew back until just the swollen head remained between his wet lips. He teased Haytham with light licks and suckles before swallowing him deep once more.

His first— and also last— attempt at deep-throating had left Connor reluctant to experiment again. It had been several weeks since that particular instance, though, and Connor liked to believe Haytham would not intentionally cause him pain or discomfort. Perhaps it was time he gave him another chance.

Sucking in a few uneven breaths, the Assassin let his eyelids slip closed and focused on relaxing the muscles of his throat. He could feel the Templar’s hips trembling with the effort not to thrust beneath his palm. Connor slipped both hands behind Haytham’s backside, wordlessly coaxing him to move, trying to let him know that it was acceptable, that he wanted it.

Haytham exhaled slowly as Connor teased him with tantalising laps of his tongue, his breath catching in his throat as he was taken in deep again. Suddenly he became aware of hands urging him forward, as though encouraging him to move.

Resistance crumbling, he slowly began to thrust, cautious of pushing Connor too far too fast. He would not reward Connor’s generosity with unnecessary impatience.

It soon became clear that Connor was willing to take far more from him than he was currently giving however. Pleased with the knowledge that his actions were welcomed, Haytham gradually increased the pace of his hips, thrusting into the wet heat of his mouth with a leisurely sort of indulgence. It was easy to lose himself in the smooth slide, his fingers still maintaining a solid grip on his son’s hair for leverage.

Connor’s earlier attentions had already drawn Haytham quite close to release; now he was very close indeed. “Connor,” he said in warning, loosening his grip slightly so the boy could pull back if he wanted to. 

The warning behind the quiet gasp of his name was not at all lost on the Assassin. He could feel in the way his hips shook and stuttered, the way his thrusts lost their lazy rhythm, breath becoming short and erratic, that Haytham was close. And although he could have easily continued until the older man was forced to spill down his throat, Connor wanted— no,  _needed_ — to taste him.

Placing a hand on a trembling thigh, Connor let his father’s cock slip from between his lips, reaching up to circle the base in a loose grip. His jaw was sore and his throat abused and raw from being stretched so wide, but oh, how it had been worth it. He pumped his fist with purpose and leaned in to lap at the tip of Haytham’s leaking erection, glancing upward with heated brown eyes before taking it back into his mouth, sucking gently.

For a moment Haytham assumed Connor meant to use only his hand to bring him off, as he was let to fall from his mouth and fingers wrapped around him in a confident grip. It seemed Connor wasn’t quite finished with him though, as he instead began to lick hungrily at the head of his cock, sucking teasingly on the tip.

It was more than enough. Haytham came in his mouth with a muffled groan as Connor seemed to have intended, his breath coming in harsh pants as he fought to regain his composure. Having released his grip on Connor’s hair, he carefully smoothed it back down again, uncharacteristically gentle.

Now that he was sated, he found his earlier curiosity resurfacing.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly, voice still a bit husky from his orgasm. “You’ve been behaving rather strangely today.”

Connor swallowed greedily, mirroring Haytham’s groan with one of his own as he pumped him through his orgasm. Insatiable, he continued to bathe the Templar in tender licks and kisses until not a drop remained and hard flesh began to soften on his tongue then slowly, reluctantly, withdrew. Sitting back on the balls of his feet, he tucked Haytham’s spent cock back inside his trousers and did up the laces.

“I am fine,” Connor insisted, not at all eager to have this conversation, and rose to his feet. He was achingly hard after such an arousing experience, but he was not inclined to ask for relief. After all, he had not done what he had to be recompensed. Pleasuring his father was reward enough.

Haytham eyed Connor with some exasperation but decided to let it lie. The Assassin was obviously aroused but made no move to indicate he wanted Haytham to do anything about it.

“Very well,” he said reluctantly. “Have it your way.” He looked around their rented room with some impatience. It would be unwise to show their faces outside so soon after their brush with Cartwright, but there was very little for them to do in their small room. It seemed they would have to entertain themselves for the time being.

“So,” he began pleasantly. “Mind telling me what you were really doing this morning?” He honestly didn’t expect to be all that interested in the answer, but it amused him that Connor seemed to think he had to hide whatever it was that he’d been up to. He couldn’t possibly have wasted the time he had to himself by merely climbing the nearest tree.

Connor stiffened and, for a split second, a look of alarm flitted across his face before being quickly replaced by one of what he hoped was casual indifference.

Did Haytham know? His father did not take kindly to disloyalty in any form— surely he would have already addressed the matter if he was aware of it. Unless, of course, Haytham was just toying with his conscience, something which Connor certainly would not put past him to do.

Suppressing the urge to simply confess that he’d spent the morning spying on the two Templars, the Assassin desperately tried to fabricate yet another lie. “I was… merely reacquainting myself with the city,” he said slowly and hesitantly.

“Too vague,” Haytham responded flippantly. “Try again.” He knew he shouldn’t torment Connor like this, shouldn’t push him too far, but the more his son attempted to lie, the more intrigued he became. He knew this couldn’t end well – Connor tended to lash out when he felt cornered – but he had little else to do and found he just couldn’t help himself.

He smirked. “Come now, Connor, surely you can at least tell me _why_ you’re being so evasive? You must know that the longer you avoid giving me a straight answer, the further you’ll pique my interest?”

He really ought to drop the subject and let it slide, but Connor really was a terrible liar and it was awfully amusing to watch him become increasingly flustered as he floundered about, reaching for plausible answers. He was obviously hiding something, and Haytham _would_ find out what it was. Rather unkindly he wondered how long it would be until Connor simply snapped and told him the truth.

Connor’s mouth twisted in an unpleasant frown, not so naïve as to not recognise when he was being played and strung along. Haytham knew something was amiss and was going out of his way to provoke him; that much was apparent. Although,  _how much_  he knew Connor couldn’t be certain. He thought to just walk out and avoid the discussion altogether, but in doing so he would likely only succeed in making the Templar even more suspicious than he already was.

In any case, the city was no doubt crawling with Regulars looking for them by now. It would be foolish to leave the inn until things had calmed down, and even then, they would be forced to make a quick escape.

Like a caged animal with nowhere to run, the realisation left Connor feeling cornered— trapped.

Taking an unconscious step backward, Connor glanced at the door then back at Haytham’s smirking face. Part of him wondered if he was only delaying the inevitable. His father was not a fool. He had lied twice thus far and each time Haytham had seen through his dishonesty. It stood to reason he would eventually discover the truth as well. Haytham would be furious, of that he was sure, but Connor did not wish for him to think him a liar too.

“You will need to find a new safe house,” he said quietly, barely more than a mumble.

His words halted Haytham in his tracks. Glancing up sharply at Connor he scrutinised him in intense silence.

“You followed me,” he said flatly, the pieces coming together at last. Of _course_ he had. Running his mind back over the conversation he’d had with Charles, he experienced an unpleasant jolt as he realised the Assassin now knew all of the Order’s proposed strategies. The only consolation was that he couldn’t possibly have had time to have reported the information to anyone else in the Brotherhood.

Livid, Haytham wondered why it had never even occurred to him that Connor would spy on him. Had he truly trusted him that much?

Yes he had, he realised, mouth twisting bitterly. Despite his better judgement he had allowed himself to trust an Assassin, and in doing so had ended up leading him straight to a Templar base of operations, compromising the Order.

And yet... perhaps the situation could still be salvaged. Perhaps it had been a different motive that had driven him to tail Haytham to his meeting. After all, Connor had yet to show any interest in attempting to reconnect with any of the Assassins in Boston.

But then why..?

“Why?” Haytham asked out loud, containing his fury for the moment.

Connor's first instinct was to apologise, to insist it had been a mistake and promise he would not disclose what he'd overheard, but in the end, they would be empty words. He was not sorry for having followed Haytham nor could he vow to keep valuable Templar information from his fellow Assassins.

Shoulders hunched defensively, Connor couldn't quite meet Haytham's eyes as he spoke, too afraid of what he might find in them. "I do not trust him." His voice was low and rushed, and although he did not mention a name, it was more than obvious who he was referring to. "He fawns over you like a lovesick pup." Connor paused, frown deepening in distaste. "I do not like it," he grumbled finally, unable to keep the bitter hint of jealousy from entering his tone.

Haytham knew at once that Connor could only be talking about Charles. He understood that Connor had good reason to hate the man, but really, this was bordering on petulance.

“And what exactly was your intention?” he asked sardonically, unimpressed. “To protect me from my own ally? Or to ensure we didn’t get up to any wrongdoing in your absence?”

As he noted Connor’s sulky demeanour and defensive posture, it suddenly began to make sense.

“I see,” Haytham said, coldly amused. “You are _jealous_.”

Annoyed as he was, he couldn’t help feeling the urge to poke further at this newly discovered sore spot of Connor’s. He stifled the impulse however, and soon his amusement gave way to impatience.

“You are aware I hope, that you sound like an utter child,” he said caustically. “My relationship with Charles is purely professional; a fact that will never change. Are you truly so insecure that you think otherwise?”

Connor bristled at the jab to his maturity, but rather than lash out with his fists as he might have done before their clandestine relationship began, he did so with words instead.

“You are one to talk,” he sneered, more than aware he was grasping at straws by this point. “Are you to tell me that you would not have done the same?” As much as he loathed the close friendship he had with Lee, he had no grounds to accuse Haytham of anything beyond conspiring against the Brotherhood, and surprisingly, that was the least of his worries. He was fighting a losing battle but was far too stubborn to back down and admit he may have acted irrationally.

“I was only protecting what is  _mine_.”

“Listen to yourself,” Haytham snapped, temper flaring. “You presume too much, boy. Remember your _place_. Do not delude yourself into thinking that you may refer to me as such.”

He knew Connor had a possessive streak, but this was just ridiculous. How dare he think he could speak to him this way? Clearly Haytham had grown far too lenient if Connor had decided he was within rights to make such a claim.

“Did you think that this,” Haytham waved his hand expressively, indicating both himself and Connor, “what we have, what we’ve been doing gives you the right to speak to me with such insolence?” He moved closer, breaching his son’s personal space and crowding him. “I do not belong to you,” he hissed icily. “Do not make the mistake of thinking so again.”

For the briefest of seconds, Connor appeared almost taken aback by the other’s harsh rebuttal, as though he had not considered the possibility of Haytham being anything else other than his, just as he was Haytham’s, but the expression was gone as quickly it had come.

Connor’s lips curled in an ugly scowl. “I presume just enough,” he spat, refusing to bow under his father’s wrath. Gone was the hesitance from before, replaced by a burning, angry vitriol. Connor shoved at Haytham’s chest in warning. “I had the right to speak to you however I pleased the moment you took me to your bed,” the Assassin added with a low growl, eyes narrowed and accusing. “Or does that mean nothing to you?’

“Should it have meant something?” Haytham asked with deliberate cruelty, his anger making him harsh. Seething, he lowered his voice to snarl, “I won’t pretend I haven’t enjoyed having you in my bed, but do not be so foolish as to believe you have gained my affection or my loyalty with your willingness to spread your legs.”

Beneath his anger he couldn’t help regretting his words, knowing they would hurt Connor deeply despite the stark dishonesty of them. In direct opposition to that however was a cold savage satisfaction, a dark whisper running through his mind that his son deserved it after this unwavering display of impudence.

Connor looked as though he’d been struck.

“I thought-…” he started but trailed off, face a mixture of bare hurt and confusion.

Connor had long since prepared himself for the possibility of one day hearing such words from his father, though never could he have imagined how painful they’d truly be. They pierced quick and deep like a knife, cutting right to his core. At first, he thought perhaps Haytham was simply mad at having his privacy infringed upon and was speaking out in anger rather than truth, but in searching his eyes, Connor saw only cruel, hard conviction.

He supposed he should have seen it coming. Haytham was as opportunistic as they came. He’d seen the perfect chance to exploit him and taken it. He’d strung him along with promises of love and affection, and just like with all those who had come before, intent on using him for their own gain, Connor had been fool enough to fall for it. Achilles had always said he was far too trusting of others.

“You can be certain I will not think such  _‘foolish’_  things again,” he muttered darkly as he shoved past Haytham, expression steeled over once more and mouth set in a bitter line even as he felt his heart breaking in two. He gathered up what few remaining supplies he had.

“Enjoy your money, father.”

With that, he wrenched open the door and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you all knew it was too good to last  
> /hides


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
> Sorry this is so late, we've been trying to organise a new updating schedule. Basically we've almost reached the point we're up to writing at the moment, so we're thinking we'll start updating more slowly to give ourselves more time.  
> I'm going on holiday for a week anyway, so we're going to skip this week's update, then resume next week.  
> Thank you for your patience, enjoy!

Still filled with spite, Haytham watched Connor leave without protest.

After he’d been alone for a few moments however, the full extent of the damage he’d inflicted began to sink in leaving him feeling awful and empty. He considered going after Connor, if not to apologise immediately then at least to make sure he was all right. He didn’t, instead sitting down heavily on his bed and massaging his temples.

Though the two of them often argued, it had never been like this. Connor’s trust, so fragile and hard-earned might never be regained. Haytham’s words were too vile and harsh to take back easily, for all that they were untrue.

And for what? Because Connor had dared to be jealous over a man Haytham already _knew_ he hated with every fibre of his being?

Of course he would be possessive, Haytham mused, feeling worse with every growing second. It wasn’t as though his son had experienced much kindness throughout his life; it was only natural that he’d want to protect his relationship with someone who had treated him with even the barest shred of decency – though Haytham admitted he couldn’t even claim that much any longer.

The Templar stared moodily at the door, fervently hoping that Connor didn’t do anything foolish.

 

So distracted was he by his thoughts, Connor failed to notice the band of Loyalist guards circling the area nor their wanted posters as he stormed out of the inn and down the street toward the city proper. He needed to locate other members of the Brotherhood and let them know of his safety as well as what he had learned during his absence. The thought of ruining all his father’s hard work pained him for reasons he didn’t understand. However, Haytham had made it abundantly clear that he did not desire him for anything other than physical pleasure and financial gain. The time for peace had ended, and although it wounded him deeply, he still had a responsibility to uphold.

He knew Duncan Little, Clipper Wilkinson and Stephane Chapheau to be based in Boston— he would find them first.

“You there! Halt!”

Connor didn’t even make it past the corner of the inn before the shout came from behind him. Out of habit, he felt for his hood, realising with increasing dismay that, in his hurry to get away from Haytham, he neglected to pull it back up. It had been incredibly unwise to return to the streets so soon, dressed as he was. In a sea of common folk, Connor and his distinctive robes, arsenal of weapons and dark skin stuck out like a sore thumb. There was still the off chance the Loyalists had been talking to another, but it was unlikely. Connor hastily tugged his hood over his head and quickened his pace.

“I said halt!”

Connor took off running down an alley.

“After him!”

He did not pause or slow down to glance over his shoulder. By the sound of thundering footsteps coming from behind him, it was apparent he had been right all along. The guards had recognised him. Connor cursed his foolishness along with his lenience toward Cartwright as he made a sharp turn around a corner, coming face to face with a dead end. He stopped for only an instant before racing to the nearest wall and beginning to climb. If he was lucky, he could escape by rooftop.  
He was nearly halfway to the top when the Loyalists rounded the side of the building. Connor could hear the faint click of their muskets.

“Fire!”

Pain exploded in his left hip and thigh, and with dim realisation, Connor knew he’d been shot. Losing his footing, he scrabbled against the surface of the wall, adrenaline urging him onward despite his injuries.

“The rest of you— again!”

Several rounds nicked his arm and shoulder. Connor grunted in pain. Blood was dripping down his leg, staining his leggings a vivid crimson. His grip weakened, and though he desperately tried to hold on, to persevere, in the end, the strain became too much. The Assassin plummeted, hitting the ground with a hard thud.  
Connor lay there gasping raggedly as he was immediately swarmed on all sides by swords and bayonets. He struggled futilely as he was hauled to his feet and made to stand while he was removed of all weapons and equipment. One of the guards tore back his hood, scrutinising him. Connor made to look away but was wrenched forward again by his hair.

“You think this is him?” someone asked.

“It doesn’t matter. These savages are all the same,” the Loyalist in front of him—a high-ranking officer, Connor assumed— said indifferently. “Take him to the Boston Gaol and lock him up. Let the courts deal with him there.”

“And what about his wounds?”

“No need to waste precious supplies on him— he’s likely for the gallows anyhow. If he dies in the meantime, that’s just one less problem for the judges to worry about.”

The first of the two nodded.

Connor glared hateful daggers at the man but otherwise remained silent as he was bound and forcefully led away, each step agony on his badly-wounded leg. By the time they’d reached the prison main gates, he was trembling from both injury and exertion, nearing unconsciousness and humiliated from being dragged through the city, stared at as though he were a rabid animal. He was handed off to the guards stationed there and brought to a holding cell.

The moment he was alone, Connor sagged to the floor with a broken sob.

 

Though he waited for at least an hour or two, Connor did not return. Haytham hadn’t really expected that he would, but he had thought to wait for a while and see if he did nevertheless. Wondering where it was most likely that his son had gone, Haytham eventually came to the conclusion that he probably would have sought out his fellow Assassins at last. Angry and hurt as he undoubtedly was, there was likely very little stopping Connor from reporting what he’d heard while eavesdropping on Charles and Haytham.

Haytham’s mouth twisted bitterly. He supposed he would have to pay Charles another visit and change the Order’s plans after all. Though perhaps not today. He knew he was going to have to explain Connor’s involvement somehow or another, both with the shakedown with Cartwright as well as the fact that it was he who had been the one to spy on them, and he was hardly in the mood at present.

Tomorrow then. There wasn’t such a rush after all; the plans he and Charles had concocted would not be put into effect for several days yet as they had to wait on the return of several Templar associates to Boston first.

In any case, it would be foolish to venture out into the streets while the city was on high alert; Haytham had no doubt that Cartwright had reported himself and Connor to the city guard by now. It was a real shame they hadn’t properly disposed of the wretched man when they’d had the chance.

When Haytham retired to bed, he hesitated over locking the door to the room, wondering if he should leave it in case Connor should return. Caution won out in the end however, especially when he considered the fact that he was currently in possession of a significant amount of coin. Besides, Connor could probably pick the lock without great difficulty if necessary.

Haytham slept fitfully that night, concerned about the Assassin despite himself, and when he awoke he was disappointed but not surprised to find the other bed empty.

After dressing himself swiftly and tucking Cartwright’s money safely inside his clothing once more, Haytham headed over to the Templar safehouse in stealth, keeping an eye out for soldiers and Assassins alike.

 

With no windows or sun to tell by, there was no way of discerning how much time had passed since Connor's capture and imprisonment. It could have been hours or even days for all the Assassin knew. He slept for most of the duration, too fatigued and feverish from the beginnings of infection to do much else. No guards came to fetch him or bring him food or water, and though, initially, he had hoped someone might come to assist him, it soon became clear that he was to be left to fend for himself.

He’d done what he could to patch up his wounds, using the sash of his belt to create a makeshift compress for his bleeding thigh. It did little to stop the pain or to address the damage itself, but at least he would not succumb to blood loss. The injuries he’d sustained to his shoulder, hip and bicep were minor in comparison. After inspecting them through the shredded holes of his clothing, Connor could see the bullet rounds had only just grazed the skin, the shallow tears requiring sutures and clean bandages at the most. That is, if he succeeded in escaping execution for a second time.

Surely the Assassins in Boston were aware of his presence in the city by now. If they did not know already, they would soon enough. News travelled fast in the city, especially regarding events such as a robbery. The real question was whether or not their knowing would be enough.

The Brotherhood did not have the same kind of influence over law and politics as did the Templar Order. They could not free a man from prison at the snap of a finger. The only way he would leave this cell with the other Assassins would be if they broke him out, and that was as an unlikely expectation. Like Bridewell, the prison was too well-protected and secure to be breached from the outside so easily. He would simply have to wait and maintain faith that his brothers would not let him down.

 

Having been let into the Templar-owned townhouse once more, Haytham was greeted by a surprised yet no less delighted Charles.

“When I heard there had been a robbery at Cartwright’s General Store I must admit to feeling some concern,” Charles said, once they were seated in private – away from any open windows this time; Haytham would not make the same mistake twice. “I am relieved to see you are safe. You were not hurt were you, sir?” he added, looking Haytham over furtively.

“No,” Haytham replied. Thanks to Connor, he thought with a pang of guilt. “However there was a... complication.”

He was unwilling to admit to a subordinate - even one as loyal as Charles - that he had failed to simply bully the merchant into submission. “I have the money,” he assured him. “But Cartwright is alive.”

If Charles was shocked that the Grand Master had failed to perform a simple extortion, he hid it well, accepting the bag of coins as they were handed to him – the money would be safer here than on Haytham’s person.

“No matter, we can always send in a junior Templar to finish him off,” he reasoned calmly. “Perhaps Philip? He is showing promise.”

“I trust your judgement,” Haytham replied. “But Cartwright isn’t the only reason I’m here today.”

“Sir?”

“The plans we made yesterday. They all need to be changed.”

“Very well,” Charles agreed, looking mildly startled. “Was there a problem with them?”

“No. But we were overheard. An Assassin was eavesdropping.”

Charles cursed under his breath. “I thought this place was secure,” he said with some frustration. “Damn those Assassins!” A thought seemed to come to him, prompting him to ask “How did you find out?”

Haytham repressed a sigh. He knew it was going to come to this eventually. “It was Connor,” he admitted. “He told me.”

“Your son?” Charles asked in amazement. “But how-” suddenly his face cleared. “Oh I see. You must have questioned him in the Gaol. Did he escape from Fort George? I did hear from an informant that he’d been locked up yesterday, though I was sure he was mistaken.”

Haytham had to fight to hide his dismay. “Locked up?” he repeated in disbelief, simultaneously concerned for and exasperated with the Assassin. Had Connor been so distracted by their fight yesterday that he had failed to fight off some mere Regulars?

“Yes, at the Boston Gaol,” Charles confirmed. “He is to be executed; perhaps they’ll actually succeed this time.”

“They won’t,” Haytham growled.

His fellow Templar gave him a curious look. “Why’s that, sir?”

“Because we are going to free him. Come along, Charles.”

 

Hours passed. Outside the prison, the sun was already high in the sky, thawing the winter cold with its warmth, as the people of Boston went about their day-to-day business, oblivious to the suffering of those locked inside the Gaol. While it had only been a typical morning to most, to the injured and weary Assassin, it seemed an eternity had passed.

Connor fought to remain alert and stay mentally focused on the situation at hand during his brief moments of wakefulness. Escape on his own was now entirely out of the question. Inflamed and throbbing sharply, his left leg had long since become useless; even the slightest of movements caused the Native to hiss in pain. He was only grateful he managed to drag himself over to rest against the bars of the cell door when he did. He was not so sure he would have succeeded in his present condition.

When he wasn’t watching or listening to the goings-on in his block, Connor frequently became wrapped up in his head. He thought of Achilles and how he was faring back on the Homestead, he thought of his fellow Assassins, his friends, and wondered how they were doing, but more often than not, Connor thought about Haytham. Despite the waves of hurt and anger that threatened to drown him, he could not help but hope he was all right, that he was safe and that the city guards had not come for him as well.

For even if his father’s feelings had been an act, Connor’s had not been.

 

Charles watched in utter disbelief as Haytham rose to his feet and moved to stand by the door.

“Are you coming?” he asked impatiently.

“With all due respect, Master Kenway,” Charles began, still seated and looking nonplussed. “Why should we free the Assassin?”

“He can still be of use to us,” Haytham replied with only a moment’s hesitation. “And he has information that I need. We can’t let him perish. Not-... not yet.”

Charles scowled but did stand to join Haytham at the door. “Should I gather some men, sir?”

“Not this time, Charles. We must not be detected, and time is of the essence. Besides,” Haytham smiled ruefully at the other man. “How do you think they would react once they knew who had they set free?”

“Very well,” Charles agreed. “Though I hope you are not letting any misplaced familial sentiment cloud your judgement when it comes to that... _savage_.”

Haytham turned on him at once, eyes flashing dangerously. “Don’t call him that,” he snarled.

“Apologies, sir,” Charles said stiffly. “Might I suggest we separate and meet at the Gaol? The authorities are still looking for you, and it wouldn’t do to have you captured as well.”

“Agreed.”

Using deserted alleyways and occasionally the rooftops to avoid the gaze of patrolling soldiers, Haytham made it undetected to the Boston Gaol. Charles soon joined him in his hiding place.

“How should we play this, sir? Bribe our way in and fight our way out?”

“That’s very daring,” Haytham commented, amused. “But no, not this time. It will be too heavily guarded for us to make it out alive with such a bold approach.”

“What do you propose?”

Haytham eyed the imposing three-storey building, silently assessing it. He smiled slightly. “Do you recall infiltrating Southgate all those years ago, Charles?”

 

The sound of a short, muffled yell coming from the end of the prison corridor startled Connor awake. At first, he believed himself to have imagined it, convinced the noise had simply been a remnant of a dream he couldn’t remember— but then he heard it again: a faint shout, as if stifled by a hand, followed by what sounded like a scuffle. Connor pressed closer to the rusted bars of his jail cell and tried to get a better look down the dimly lit hall.

Connor’s initial thought was that it was a brawl among inmates, but that was impossible. Housed away from the general population, there were few other prisoners around, if any. Not to mention there was a decided lack of the enthusiastic whoops and hollers that usually accompanied a fight. He was certain it had to be something else.

His mind strayed to Duncan Little and the others. Had they somehow accomplished infiltrating the Gaol?

The answer was provided for him when a guard in full Redcoat regalia came rushing around the corner of the cell block, musket in hand and a ring of keys jangling from his belt. No, not a guard, Connor realised, taken aback, but  _Charles Lee_. Now he  _knew_  he must be imagining things.

 

Infiltrating the jail was surprisingly easy, but then both Haytham and Charles were quite used to this sort of thing by now. All it took was the right uniform and no small amount of bluffing and they were in. The prison guards seemed to accept their claim that they’d been sent by their superior to inspect and question the prisoner. Once they were led down to the cell block, Haytham thanked their escort by thrusting his hidden blade into the man’s throat and taking his keys, leaving him to his death throes.

From there they had to move quickly. They split up, Haytham silently eradicating the rest of the guards in the area while Charles searched for Connor. Turning a corner, he finally found him, injured and alone in his cell.

His mouth twisted in disdain. “There you are.” He was just in the process of unlocking the cell door when Haytham joined them, taking in the scene with relief and concern as he noted the bloodstains and makeshift bandages on Connor’s injured leg.

“I don’t think he’s able to walk,” he murmured to Charles as the cell door swung open.

“Shall I support him, sir?” Charles asked, looking resigned.

Haytham paused, looking between the two of them. “I’ll do it,” he said finally, stepping into the cell. “You go ahead and ensure we meet no resistance.”

Charles nodded and left them.

When Charles had turned the corner again, Haytham let his shoulders slump, exhaling quietly in relief at seeing his son alive. “You can hate me later,” he muttered, moving closer to help lift Connor into a standing position. “First let’s get you out of here.” Luckily Connor’s other leg was still capable – Haytham didn’t think he’d have been able to support the Assassin’s full body weight on his own.

Slowly and painstakingly they were able to exit the cell and begin their escape.

Connor frowned but otherwise let the disguised Grand Master help him to his feet, in no condition to protest even if he had wanted to. He was even more confused now than he had been seeing Lee, of all people, barrelling down the hallway toward his cell, but the imminent reality of his rescue— assuming this all wasn’t some cruel dream concocted by his fevered mind— kept his attention focused on the present situation.

“Why are you here?” he asked accusingly despite not expecting an answer, words clipped and laced with pain, as they slowly made their way down the cell block toward the door through which Lee had disappeared moments ago. They passed several guards’ corpses along the way, though it was difficult for Connor to feel much pity for their deaths. He’d been in and around prisons long enough to experience first-hand the horrid way prisoners were treated by their jailors, as if they were less than animals, undeserving of even the barest shred of decency. It both angered and sickened him.

By the time they’d made it safely out of the cold, stone walls of the Boston Gaol, thankfully with no further opposition from the prison guards, Connor was breathing heavily and trembling and shaking from exertion. His arm throbbed angrily and his leg was positively on fire. “My weapons…” he murmured weakly.

Haytham glanced at him. “Later,” he assured him. “At the moment your safety is more important.”

Unfortunately Haytham still wasn’t entirely certain how they were going to get to safety, considering the state Connor seemed to be in. How on earth were they going to make it through the city without being accosted by real Redcoats? Assuming Connor didn’t simply collapse from sheer exhaustion before then.

He was considering their options when they were rejoined by Charles, who shot Connor a brief but filthy look before turning his attention back to Haytham. “What now, sir?”

In different circumstances Haytham might have been amused by Charles’ obvious resentment, but now it gave him a twinge of unease. He hoped it would not cause Charles to balk from assisting further, as he still had need of him.

Pushing the thought aside, he refocused on the task at hand. “Charles,” he said slowly. “Do we still own a carriage?”

“Yes sir. Shall I fetch it?”

Haytham tried not to sag in relief. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Of course, sir.” The Templar strode away, spine stiff with purpose.

Hoping he wouldn’t take too long, Haytham returned his attention to Connor. “Let’s move over here,” he suggested, shifting them so Connor could slump against a nearby wall. Hopefully the overgrown grass would shield him from view.

Briefly he toyed with the idea of returning to the jail and retrieving Connor’s weapons alone, if only to set the boy’s mind at ease, but was forced to dismiss the thought. He’d seen the ridiculous number of weapons the Assassin wore strapped to his person every day; it was unlikely that Haytham would make it out a second time while so encumbered. Connor would have to retrieve them himself once recovered, it seemed.

Now that they were out of any immediate danger, Haytham’s guilt resurfaced, heavy and suffocating. He regarded Connor in silence until he couldn’t bear it any longer.

“I am truly sorry,” he said softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you in a week! <3


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience!  
> From now on we're going to update once a week every Monday, which will hopefully give us time to write plenty more so we don't have to slow down any further.  
> Without further ado, here's this week's chapter!

“Enough of your lies,” Connor immediately lashed out, expertly masking all the emotional hurt and physical pain he’d been made to feel behind a raging barrier of anger. “I do not want to hear them.”

Back pressed firmly against the brick side of the building, Connor slid down the wall to sit on the ground amidst the tall grass and shrubs, desperately needing to rest, even if just for a moment. He would be lying if he were to say he was not grateful for the rescue. It was very likely he would have met his end at the gallows. His only wish was that escape hadn’t come at the hands of the man next to him.

“Is there something else you need of me? Another merchant stealing from you? Is that why you are here?” he asked, trying in vain to calm the shaking of his limbs. His voice lowered to a hateful whisper. “Or perhaps it is because you realised I was the only one willing to  _‘spread my legs’_  for you.”

In truth, Connor knew little about Haytham’s sex life or possible lack thereof. All he knew was that he wished to cut Haytham as deeply as he himself had been.

“I had thought that by helping you I could prove that we are better allies than enemies, but I can see now that I was just a fool.” For a terrifying moment, Connor feared he might weep or do something else equally weak and humiliating, but the feeling was quickly subdued and the Assassin grimaced as he tried to stand back up.

“Take… Take me to an inn. I will find help on my own. You and I are  _through_.”

While Haytham wasn’t exactly surprised by Connor’s harsh rejection of his apology, his words still stung, for all that he knew he deserved them.  Leaving Connor unattended at an inn however, was out of the question. Whether his help was desired or not – and it was quite apparent that it was _not_ – Haytham had every intention of ensuring that Connor was properly cared for.

“Stay where you are,” he ordered as Connor attempted to stand. “You’re in no fit state to be moving around.” Sighing, he softened his tone slightly. “Don’t try to resist,” he said quietly. “Just let me help you. Once you’re well again you’ll be free to do as you please.”

He knew Connor was likely too proud to accept his help, but he hoped he’d see reason even so.

Seeing no alternative but to wait for Charles to return, Haytham joined Connor on the ground, though putting a careful distance between them so the Assassin wouldn’t feel like his personal space was infringed upon.

In the days before their arrival in Boston, Connor would have been pleased and even perhaps been daring enough to scoot closer had Haytham sat next to him as he had done. Now, all he desired was to put as much distance between himself and Haytham as possible.

“Do not tell me what to do,” the Assassin hissed, already attempting to stand for a second time after failing the first. He could feel faint trickles of blood from beneath the sash wind their way down the back of his leg, dipping into the hollow of his knee and dripping along his calf. It dimly occurred to him that the wound must have reopened in his struggle to get up. “I do not need your help.”

He should have stopped and admitted defeat when his vision began to grow hazy and his mind light-headed, but then again, Connor had never been one to give up in the face of adversity. Breathing shallowly, he made it to his knees only to be overcome a sudden surge of dizziness and he pitched forward. The last thing Connor saw before blackness overtook him was Haytham rushing to his side.

Haytham watched with exasperation followed swiftly by alarm as Connor tried once again to stand, only to see his knees buckle beneath him as he fell heavily to the ground. Springing to his feet, Haytham quickly moved to crouch beside him. Connor was still breathing and his pulse had not stopped, Haytham was relieved to find. His body was probably overwrought from his injuries, and a night spent in a jail cell probably hadn’t done his health any wonders.

He seemed fevered as well Haytham noted, pressing a hand to his son’s forehead. The sooner he received medical attention the better. Concerned as he was, the more pragmatic part of him had to admit Connor would be far easier to transport this way, without lashing out at every provocation. Haytham just hoped Charles would return soon with the carriage.

Roughly half an hour passed before the sound of horses’ hooves reached Haytham’s ears, and he looked up in relief to see the familiar old carriage come into view. Bringing the horses to a stop beside their hiding place, Charles jumped down from the driver’s seat. He’d changed out of his Loyalist uniform, Haytham was pleased to see. It would have been unusual to see a soldier driving a carriage.

“You’re going to have to help me move him,” Haytham admitted as Charles approached.

“Is he dead?” Charles asked, unconcerned.

“No,” Haytham replied calmly, once he was sure he wasn’t going to snap at the man.

“Pity,” Charles commented, but nonetheless went to open the carriage door. When he came back they lifted Connor’s heavy bulk – what had Achilles been feeding him all these years? – and between them were just able to carry him over to the carriage.

“Where am I taking him?” asked Charles.

Haytham took a deep breath, bracing himself for the inevitable explosion. “To the safehouse,” he ordered.

Charles did not disappoint. “ _What_?” he demanded. “Are you out of your _mind_? Sir,” he added belatedly.

“No, but I can see how it might appear that way,” Haytham replied, smiling faintly. “He needs to be kept somewhere out of sight of the authorities, as well as somewhere we can keep an eye on him. Our headquarters is the best place for that.”

“But, but _sir_ ,” Charles was spluttering indignantly. “It’s our headquarters for a _reason_. What if he learns something he shouldn’t? And,” a new idea seemed to come to him and he latched onto it eagerly, “what if his fellow Assassins should launch a full scale rescue attempt?”

“You’ve seen his condition,” Haytham said reasonably. “He won’t be able to venture anywhere he shouldn’t. As for the Brotherhood, well. They have no way of knowing where he is.”

“But didn’t you say he had spied on our last meeting? Surely he will have told his brothers where he was at the time.”

Haytham shook his head. “He has not had a chance to tell them since then and being locked up.”

“How can you possible know that?” Charles demanded. “You would have had to have been with him the whole time to- _oh_.” The truth must have shown on Haytham’s face, as the other man paused, staring at him in puzzlement. “What were you doing, sir?”

“I’ll explain soon, Charles,” Haytham promised. “But for now Connor requires a doctor.”

“Very well,” Charles said reluctantly, moving to climb back into the driver’s seat.

“Charles,” Haytham’s voice stopped him. “Thank you. For cooperating with me today.”

“Think nothing of it, sir,” Charles grumbled, but he looked considerably happier as he waited for Haytham to climb into the carriage with Connor.

Once they began moving, Haytham looked Connor over worriedly, gaze lingering on the bruised features that had managed to become so dear to him, whether he admitted it to himself or not. He could do little more than wait however, so he attempted to distract himself by trying to think of the best way to break the news to Charles that he had been working with the Assassin again. In the end he decided there was no tiptoeing around it; he was just going to have to go ahead and state it bluntly.

Soon they were back at the townhouse. Enlisting the help of the ever-present Philip – was Charles grooming him as a protégé? – they were able to move Connor upstairs into an empty bedroom. With Philip sent away to fetch a doctor, Haytham left his son to rest, closing the bedroom door behind him and turning to face Charles.

“I believe I owe you some answers,” he said evenly. “The truth is that I brought Connor with me from New York to settle the matter with Cartwright.”

Charles looked stricken. He swallowed whatever he’d been about to say however, and instead said mildly, “That seems quite a risk, for such little reward.”

“On the contrary,” Haytham replied. “I wanted to see how much influence I had managed to develop over the boy while he was imprisoned at Fort George. As it turns out, quite a lot.” He sighed. “Or at least I _did_. We had a... disagreement. He left, and ended up arrested for the robbery and assault of Cartwright.”

“So _he’s_ why the mission failed,” Charles was nodding in understanding.

Haytham’s mouth twisted. “No actually. The failure was entirely my own. It was actually Connor who salvaged it, in the end.”

 

It was early in the evening and Connor had still yet to wake from his comatose state when Philip finally returned to the safe house, doctor and his young male apprentice in tow. It had taken a great deal of time and effort to find someone willing to treat the fugitive currently in their care as well as a considerable amount of coin to ensure they remained silent, but the Grand Master had insisted a physician be found as soon as possible, and although he did not understand what it was about the injured Assassin that made him so important— and despite the difficulties of tracking down a suitable candidate to attend to his wounds in the first place— Philip had not dared to disappoint. Thus, he had searched and searched until, at last, his endeavours paid off.

The man was tall and stoic, dressed in a fine shirt and a clean, fitted waistcoat, a thin pair of spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose. His assistant was dressed equally as smart. It was clear he was not wanting for business. Philip led the two of them inside, past the sitting room where he nodded briefly in greeting at his superiors, and up the staircase to the unused bedroom the Native was being housed. He opened the door to let them in.

Connor was exactly where he had been left, Philip was relieved to note, bloodstained and lying in the middle of the room’s sole bed.

Handing his hefty bag of supplies to his apprentice, the doctor walked over to stand at the edge of the baseboard. He regarded Connor with an assessing look. “He will need to be undressed,” he mused out loud before turning to Philip. “When did his injuries occur?”

Philip appeared nonplussed by the question. “I… I do not know, sir. I was only told that he’d been shot.”

The doctor acknowledged the answer with a quick jerk of his head then gestured for his assistant to come forward. “We’ll need hot water and some rags,” he told Philip as they carefully began divesting the unconscious Assassin of his clothing, “A bottle of alcohol as well. Preferably whisky, if it is available, although anything will do.”

Philip nodded, grateful for the short opportunity to get away from the uncomfortable situation, and left to acquire the required items.

When Philip returned, a pot of warm water in hand and a bottle of gin tucked under his arm, the doctor and his apprentice had succeeded in stripping Connor of his bloody clothes and had rolled him over onto his stomach. Philip could not help but wince at the inflamed and infected bullet hole in the back of his thigh.

“He’s lucky it did not hit bone,” the doctor mused as he set the washbasin down on the floor by the bed and the gin on the nearby nightstand, where a small vial of laudanum already sat uncorked next to a teaspoon. Each grabbing a cloth draped across the edge of the tub Philip had brought, both doctor and assistant began cleaning the combination of caked and fresh blood from Connor’s body with methodical efficiency.

Philip remained on the opposite side of the room, out of the way but close enough that if needed, he would be available for assistance. Charles and the Grand Master had been in the middle of a rather heated discussion last he had ventured downstairs, and Philip had not wished to disturb them. Glancing every so often at the open door, he could only hope one, or both, of them would relieve him of this unexpected responsibility soon.

He watched as the doctor set aside the rag and motioned for the bottle of gin, which was obediently retrieved by his junior apprentice.

Connor’s lids immediately shot open with a low wail the moment the alcohol touched the open wound, and Philip hastened to try and subdue him as he twisted and thrashed to escape the pain, eyes wide and unseeing. Even weak as he was, it took all of Philip’s strength to hold the struggling man still. It occurred to him, while the doctor continued to clean the infected tissue, the Assassin was frantically calling out for someone in his confused and delirious state. Amidst all the commotion, Philip couldn’t understand him, and it was then he realised he wasn’t speaking in English at all.

“Father...” Connor gasped brokenly in Mohawk, “Father, please.... Please help me... Father...”


	21. Chapter 21

Having been keeping his ears pricked for any sign of Connor waking, Haytham knew at once when there was a commotion upstairs.

“Excuse me, Charles,” he said distractedly, and walked briskly up the stairs to the room where they’d left Connor. As he drew closer he began to hear his son’s voice ringing out, breathless and hoarse with pain.

“ _Raké:ni_!”

Hearing the familiar, heartbreaking word made him freeze outside the door for a moment.

Taking a deep breath, he strode into the room to see Connor flat on his stomach with Philip struggling to hold him down while the doctor and his apprentice cleaned his wound.

Rushing through the door, Haytham brushed Philip aside and took his place in holding Connor still. Ignoring the others in the room, he leaned down to murmur, “I’m here, son. I’m here.” He had hoped Connor would calm down upon hearing his voice, but it didn’t seem to be enough, as the boy continued to thrash blindly against the mattress.

Aware that he couldn’t be seen to do anything too intimate, Haytham quickly sifted through his memories trying to think of something, anything that could help break through his panic.

Finally he found what he was looking for.

Taking a deep breath, he leaned closer and whispered, “Ratonhnhaké:ton. I’m here.”

Connor's mind, drugged and irrational as it was, immediately fixated on the soft murmur of his father’s voice. He focused on the sound, on its gentleness and its quiet reassurance. Slowly, Connor’s struggles began to cease until, at last, they stopped altogether. Face creased in pain, he tried to reach for Haytham and whined feebly when he was unable, instead clutching the ruined bed sheets.

“It is normal,” the doctor said, seemingly unfazed by the outburst, and plucked a clean rag from the edge of the washbasin, using it to dab away the excess alcohol. Connor jerked as pressure was applied to the wound but otherwise remained still. “I’ve seen far worse reactions— linen, please,” he then ordered and nodded in thanks when it was brought to him by his assistant. He carefully packed the bullet hole with a few torn strips before binding it in place.

The entire process was then repeated with the other, less severe, wounds.

Connor was shaking and murmuring incoherently by the time the doctor started to wipe his hands clean and pack up his supply kit, unsympathetic.

“He will need to be watched closely,” he told both Haytham and Philip as he flipped the bag shut. “I will return tomorrow to evaluate his progress. In the meantime,” he motioned toward the bottle of laudanum on the bedside table, “Give him half a teaspoon every fourth hour.”

“Thank you,” Haytham inclined his head. “Philip, will you see these gentlemen to the door? I will stay with our patient.”

Once the others had left the room, Haytham gave into the urge to card his fingers through Connor’s hair, though he dared not do much more. “You’re safe now,” he murmured, though he was unsure whether it was Connor or himself he was reassuring.

Distracted, he failed to hear Charles approach until the other man cleared his throat pointedly from the doorway. Haytham swiftly removed his hand. “Yes, Charles?”

“So _that’s_ what this is all about,” Charles commented coldly. “You _care_ about the boy.”

For a moment Haytham feared Charles had discovered the true extent of his relationship with Connor, so he had to fight to not look too relieved when he realised the other man had barely scratched the surface.

“He’s my son,” he replied simply.

“He’s an _Assassin_ ,” Charles snapped. “You know, you’ve been behaving exactly like you did back then, when you were cavorting around with his mother.”

“ _Enough_ ,” Haytham snarled, but Charles continued, “I’ve been holding my tongue out of respect for you, but this has gone too far. I will not stand by and watch you compromise the Order out of misplaced sentiment!”

There was a heavy pause, until finally Haytham responded, “I thank you for sharing your concerns with me, Charles. Now get _out._ ”

The other Templar looked mutinous but obeyed, leaving Haytham and Connor alone once more. Haytham stood to close the door behind him, giving them more privacy this time, then moved a chair over to sit by his son’s bedside.

It was a troubling situation he had mired himself in, especially since the Order could scarcely afford any sort of division within its ranks. Still, he knew he’d never be able to forgive himself if he had left Connor to fend for himself while in such a weakened state.

If Connor was aware of the argument taking place next to him, he didn’t show it. His eyes were open— albeit barely— and his pained murmurs had quieted to an occasional whimper, but from the way his normally sharp gaze was dulled and unfocused, it was obvious that he was in no fit state to fully comprehend what was going on around him.

It was not until Haytham had seated himself by the side of the bed that Connor shifted his head to look at him, pupils so dilated brown appeared almost black. A brief flicker of cognisance passed over his face and he shakily reached out with the hand of his bandaged arm. “Raké:ni… Father…” he slurred, struggling to differentiate between both languages.

His memories of the past few days were patchy at best. He knew he’d been injured, that much was apparent, even to him, and he knew he’d been saved. Saved from what, however, he could not recall. Vaguely, he felt as though there was something he was forgetting, something important, something he should be upset about, but it hovered at the edge of his mind, just out of reach. Connor ultimately decided that none of it mattered. His father was there; his father would take care of him. He was safe.

Seeing his son so vulnerable and unaware of his surroundings did nothing to assuage Haytham’s guilt. The fact that Connor was currently accepting and even welcoming his presence and assistance only went to show how far gone he currently was. The inevitable explosion that was sure to follow Connor’s full return to consciousness would no doubt be considerable. Still, it was rather gratifying that it was still Haytham he was reaching for in his weakened and emotional state.

“Shh,” he soothed him, taking his hand to help assure him that he was still there. “You should rest, Connor. I’ll still be here.”

Briefly he wondered about the wisdom of bringing the Assassin to a building owned by Templars, but at least he could keep an eye on him this way. Besides, he was reasonably sure his name still carried a certain amount of weight among the Order these days, even if he hadn’t been as directly involved in Templar operations lately as he used to be. Hopefully that meant that if he said that Connor was to be left alone, it would be enough to ensure that he would be.

Additionally, while he knew it was unlikely that Charles would ever actively support his decision to see to his son’s care personally, he was fairly certain he would come around, especially if they were able to reach a point where it was clear that Connor no longer posed a threat. 

Lulled by the Templar’s gentle reassurances, Connor held his father’s hand in a loose grip and relaxed into the linen mattress with a small noise of contentment, finally at ease. Haytham’s palm was warm and comforting against his own, the skin callused from decades of combat yet also soft to the touch— Connor wished he was closer.  

“’M fine,” he mumbled in garbled English in spite of the way his lids began to droop. Physically and mentally exhausted, it wasn’t long before they closed altogether. His breaths evened and slowed, eventually morphing into quiet snores as he slipped deeper into slumber, fingers still limply intertwined with Haytham’s.

He woke four hours later to a throbbing ache in his leg. Connor coughed, groaning weakly. On instinct, he attempted to sit up, only to wince and growl in pain as he put weight on his bad arm, instead resigning himself to lying where he was. Where was he?

He was in a bed, that much the Assassin was certain, and naked save for the blankets strewn about his form. He’d also been bandaged, Connor noticed. He tried desperately to recall what had happened in the time between his capture and the situation he was currently in, but all he could remember was pain and darkness and then a hand holding his.

Connor struggled to look around, wanting to assess his location, but even the slightest of movements caused his vision to swim and nausea to swell warningly in his stomach. Had his men come for him after all?

“Duncan? Stephane?” he croaked, “Clipper?”

Haytham watched with relief as Connor fell back asleep, content to remain by his bedside – it wasn’t as though he had any other pressing concerns at that moment. He was aware that the peace wouldn’t last but he meant to enjoy it while he could, with Connor’s hand still in his.

Eventually he himself must have dozed off for a while, though he was roused immediately upon hearing Connor wake up. As was often the case, he was properly awake and alert before Connor was, and soon recognised the same lack of focus in his son’s gaze that had been there the last time he had been made to take laudanum.

The first words out of Connor’s mouth were three names that Haytham faintly recognised as belonging to his apprentice Assassins. So he didn’t remember where he was then, Haytham realised. That didn’t bode well. He took a deep breath.

“Connor,” he began carefully. “Do you remember what happened?” He didn’t bother trying to reach out to touch the Assassin while he was in this state, certain it wouldn’t be welcomed.

Connor’s restless shuffling subsided at the sound of his name, and he stilled, utterly silent, as the same voice then proceeded to ask him a question.  _‘_ _Do you remember what happened?’_  The inquiry in itself mattered very little to him; he was far more focused on who it was that had spoken to pay much attention to  _what_  had been spoken. His head felt full of cotton and the potent cocktail he’d been given had left his hearing distorted and muffled, but there was no mistaking what, or rather who, he had heard. He didn’t need to look. He would have recognised that stoic British accent anywhere.

Memories slowly trickled back to him in waves— he and Haytham’s fight… the guards… the chase… his injuries… the prison… his rescue. It was then he realised what had happened, where he was. Connor growled, though it was not nearly as threatening a noise in his current condition, unable to move or even keep his eyes open.

He’d told him. He’d  _told_  him that he wanted to be taken to an inn.

“What have you done to me?” he immediately lashed out, “Where am I?”

Haytham sighed. “You have been treated by a doctor and left to rest, no more than that. You’re in a safe place, I assure you.” Somehow he didn’t think Connor would take too kindly to the news that he was currently on Templar property, especially when it was quite the opposite of what he had asked for.

He could almost feel the barely concealed rage emanating from Connor’s prone form. “Listen to me,” he said patiently. “You were in a terrible state, and you’re still recovering. It wasn’t so long ago that you trusted me, or something close to it at least. I need you to trust me again, at least until you are well enough to take care of yourself. Do you understand?”

Though he didn’t say so, it wasn’t as though Connor could move anywhere himself, so he might as well make his peace with it. It wasn’t as though he expected the Assassin to be grateful, but there was little point in trying to resist his assistance either.

“Trust you?” Connor was quick to snap in response, growing more and more aggravated by the second. Haytham’s patience and calm demeanour grated on his already-frayed nerves, and Connor wanted nothing more than to get up and leave. It upset him even further that he could not. “You want me to trust you?”

The Assassin breathed a bitter, disbelieving laugh. “From the start, you have done  _nothing_  but use me,” he spat, volume rising with every word. “You strung me along, made me believe that you  _cared_ , that you valued me as a person instead of a tool, and like the  _fool_  that I was-…!” Connor’s voice choked off with an anguished sob, and his hands twisted in the bedcovers as tears welled unbidden behind his clenched eyelids. He turned his face away, desperate to retain what was left of his dignity.

“You must… truly be insane… to believe I would ever trust you again.”

“Perhaps,” Haytham replied, voice still calm even as he felt Connor’s words cut him deeply. “But what choice do you have? I don’t expect you to believe me,” he added quietly after a moment. “Not now. But what I said to you earlier... those horrible things I said. They were not true. I was angry. I _wanted_ to hurt you. But,” he paused, feeling a fresh wave of guilt rise within him. “ _This_ was never my intention.”

Furious as he’d been about Connor’s betrayal of his trust, and his self-entitled attitude, it had never crossed his mind to want to see his son injured, and certainly not to this degree. Perhaps it had taken it to actually happen, and his subsequent guilt and worry for him to actually realise it, but he did not wish to lose him.

And yet... if Connor’s current words were true, that might just be what was happening.

Haytham swallowed. He would not, _could_ not lose him. He had said his piece. It was up to Connor now.

Suddenly the thought occurred to him that perhaps Connor would be better off without him. After all, while Haytham had certainly grown to care for the boy, it wasn’t as though he’d ever really stopped to consider what was best for him. He’d been too caught up within his own selfish desires.

Perhaps... perhaps it was time he took a step back and stopped being so forceful. He would still see to Connor’s recovery of course, but afterwards it might be better to distance himself. If Connor wanted to return to him, he could, but Haytham would not push or insist upon it.

Connor wanted to believe him— more than anything, he wanted to believe what Haytham had said to be true— but while his heart screamed ‘yes,’ his mind said ‘no.’ Regardless of whether or not his words had been sincere, his father deserved neither his trust nor forgiveness after what had transpired between them. The chance still existed that this was all just an emotional ploy, concocted by Haytham, to draw him back under his influence, and Connor refused to allow himself to be taken advantage of by him, or anyone else, ever again.

Several seconds ticked by. The room was silent other than for Connor’s stifled sniffs and shuddering breaths.

“I want to sleep,” Connor finally murmured, the sound muffled by the pillow beneath his head. It was as if all the fight had been drained out of him, leaving behind only weary acceptance.

“Very well,” Haytham responded, a bit dismayed to find Connor so weak and non-argumentative. Not that he could blame him of course, but it was a far cry from his usual tenacity.

He stood, intending to give Connor some time alone, before his eye was caught by the bottle of laudanum where it had been left on the nightstand. He glanced at the clock. It had been at least four hours since the doctor had visited, so he must be due for another dosage.

“Before that though,” he continued reluctantly. “Will you permit me to administer your medicine? The doctor prescribed you a certain dosage and you’re due for the next one.” He paused, then added “You must be in pain.”

He didn’t really expect Connor to trust him, but he hoped he would at least know he didn’t wish to poison him or anything equally malicious.

For a brief moment, Connor very much considered just spitting out a defiant ‘no’ so that Haytham would leave him be, but even angry and upset as he was, he knew doing such a thing would not be the wisest of decisions. While his arm was merely sore and tender, aching uncomfortably beneath the bandages where the rounds had grazed his skin, his leg was burning as if on fire. He’d been shot at on a number of occasions, but not like this, never like this.

He did not trust his father nor did he trust that he was not planning something, but regardless of what his intents were, Connor did not believe killing him was one of them, and sleep would come much easier without the pain of a gunshot wound. The Assassin turned his head slightly to the side, enough to crack open an eye, bleary and still wet with unshed tears. He glanced first up at Haytham then down at the wooden stand next to where he lay, only barely able to make out the small, corked bottle on top of it. If he knew anything about the Colonists and their idea of medicine, it was likely an opiate of some kind.

Connor quickly closed his eye. The last time he’d been made to take a similar tonic, he’d wound up sleeping with his father, which was what had sent him down this dark and confusing road to begin with. Naturally, he was wary of doing so again for fear of what he might do.

“I will do it myself,” he grouched, though he was more than aware he would probably not be able.

Haytham rolled his eyes. A sharp contradiction was on the very tip of his tongue but he held it back, instead moving closer so he was standing by the edge of Connor’s bed.

Lying on his stomach as he was, Connor was more likely to choke on the liquid than swallow it. It didn’t seem like he was able to sit up properly any time soon though.

“Are you able to shift onto your side for a moment?” he asked quietly. He was willing to assist if necessary but didn’t expect Connor would take too kindly to such an offer. Still they managed somehow, and Haytham was able to fetch the medicine and guide half a teaspoon of the liquid between Connor’s lips.

“Rest now,” he murmured, setting the bottle aside again. “I’ll ensure you are not disturbed.”

He left the room, closing the door quietly behind himself.


	22. Chapter 22

Connor listened to Haytham’s footsteps as they retreated across the floor followed by the creak of the door then a click as it was shut. The room was plunged into silence.

Shifting restlessly where he’d been left to lie on his side, Connor coughed and swallowed, trying to rid his mouth of the tincture’s lingering, bitter taste. He wished he had not been so mulish in asking for a drink of water. Now, Haytham was gone, and Connor would sooner suffer than call out to his father for assistance.

It didn’t take long before a pleasant haze began to settle over his mind, turning his thoughts pointless and muddled, and the Assassin found it increasingly difficult to remember why he had been upset in the first place. He fell asleep soon after.

It was dark when Connor awoke again, groggy and still heavily under the laudanum’s potent effects. He tried to sit up, wincing as he did so. “Father?”

Haytham hadn’t quite known what to do with himself once he’d left Connor to rest, but had wanted to keep himself occupied so he’d sought out Charles.

Luckily the past few hours were a sufficient amount of time for Charles’ temper to have cooled significantly, and though his opinion on Haytham’s concern for his son was unchanged, he seemed rather abashed for having snapped at his superior.

It wasn’t especially exciting to be drawn back into managing the Order’s administrative affairs after being away from it for so long, but at least it kept Haytham busy for a while until the sun had set and it became too difficult to read the page in front of him.

Charles had already surmised that Haytham would be staying in the townhouse as long as Connor did, and had taken the liberty of having the room next to the Assassin’s made up to accommodate him. Thanking him graciously, Haytham waited until Charles had returned to his own devices before deciding it was time he checked on Connor.

Slipping into the dark room with a lit candle in hand, he found Connor already awake if not entirely alert.

“Connor,” he greeted him softly. “How are you feeling? Can I do anything for you?”

It was with no small amount of effort, as well as a great deal of pain, that Connor managed to drag, twist and pull his uncooperative body into a sitting position on the bed, back propped up against the headboard and legs splayed out in front of him, completely unabashed by his nudity. He was just considering calling out for his father a second time when the door clicked open and the walls were bathed in a lambent glow as someone stepped inside, a candlestick in hand.

The small, flickering flame of the candle shone like the sun in the otherwise dark room, and Connor had to squint to see against the light. The individual’s form was blurry, but the Assassin was able to pick out a tricorn hat and a darkly-coloured cloak right before whoever it was spoke.

“Father,” he mumbled in response, instantly recognising the voice as that of Haytham’s. There was a part of him that vaguely felt as though he should not be as happy to see him as he was, but Connor was quick to push it aside, for why would he not wish to be around Haytham? That was ridiculous. Haytham was his father. He loved his father, and his father loved him. Right?

“I am… fine. I think,” he said quietly as if not sure himself, “But I am thirsty— and cold.”

Despite his earlier resolution to distance himself and hold his own feelings in check, Haytham couldn’t help running his gaze over his son’s bare form as it was illuminated by the glow of his candle before guiltily dragging his eyes away. He didn’t think Connor would notice, but it was the principle of it.

He nodded. “Of course. I’ll be back in a moment.” He left the room again and soon returned with one of the thick blankets from his bed bundled up under his arm. Placing the candle safely out of the way, he unrolled the blanket and draped it over Connor.

He’d been given a jug of water and a drinking glass in his room as well, he’d noticed earlier, so he retrieved that as well. Judging that Connor seemed steady enough to hold the glass, Haytham filled it with water and handed it to him.

He knew he ought to leave for the night now that he’d ensured that Connor was cared for, but his son seemed to have mellowed again under the influence of the laudanum and didn’t seem to be in any hurry to throw him out again. So he lingered, even going as far as to sit down carefully on the edge of the bed. “Is there anything else I can do?” he asked, looking for an excuse to stay.

Connor took the glass of water in both hands with a small ‘thank you,’ more than willing to let the Templar play nursemaid for now. His leg still twinged unpleasantly despite the mixture of opiates, but Connor suspected that was likely his own fault for trying to move unassisted so soon. Either way, he did not expect to be doing much on his own for quite some time. It was a reality he had to accept.

He shakily lifted the cup to his lips and took a long drink. Half of the water ended up dribbled down his chin and onto his chest, but if Connor noticed, he did not seem to care. The cool liquid was heaven on his parched tongue, and the Assassin drank from it generously until not a drop remained.

He lowered the glass to his lap and he glanced up at Haytham, who had by then seated himself on the corner of the mattress, hovering around his bedside like some great mother hen. Connor’s eyes drifted to the room’s one window then back at his father where it remained, unfocused but unfaltering. “Stay,” he requested quietly, “Please.”

A dozen reasons to refuse flashed through Haytham’s mind but he voiced none of them, simply taking the empty glass from Connor and setting it aside before beginning to shrug out of his coat. He suspected Connor wouldn’t be particularly impressed finding him in his bed come morning, but perhaps he could escape back to his own room before he or anyone else awoke. Besides, he could admit he’d rather missed the peculiar physical closeness they seemed to have established over the past week or so.

Having set his outer layers and his boots to one side and blown the candle out, Haytham helped Connor to lie back down and then climbed under the blanket with him, careful not to jolt his injured body. He was struck by a pang of longing as he did so, wishing to touch his son and draw him close, but fully aware that he’d forfeited the right to do so. Whether Connor was currently aware of it or not, Haytham knew he still hadn’t forgiven him.

Unfortunately the bed didn’t seem to have been made to hold more than one adult, and though it was quite a bit wider than the narrow beds provided by the inns they’d stayed in, they couldn’t leave too much space between each other if they didn’t want to fall off the edge.

Once the blanket was settled comfortably over them both, Haytham felt his own tiredness catch up with him and knew it wouldn’t be long until he fell asleep.

Unlike Haytham, Connor had no qualms about closing the short distance between them, taking the opportunity to nestle up against the Templar’s side the moment he slid under the blanket. He carefully draped his bandaged arm across Haytham’s waist while his other wound its way behind his back. Head tucked comfortably in the curve of his shoulder, Connor pulled his father tight against him. He murmured something incoherent into the cloth of Haytham’s shirt and closed his eyes.

The sun was already streaming in through the dusty panes of the window when Connor next woke, bathing the room in a rich, pleasant glow. Like most mornings, his return to full consciousness was a slow and drawn-out one, a process made even more prolonged by the opium’s lingering aftereffects.

His first realisation was that he was not alone— his arms were wrapped around a warm body, his cheek pressed to a firm chest. It was oddly reminiscent. Groaning quietly, Connor cracked open a heavy eyelid. His vision was met with the blurry, white fabric of a linen shirt— Haytham’s shirt. It was then that the pieces began to fall together. Haytham had stopped by to check on him during the night, had brought him a blanket and water. He had asked him to stay.

Connor’s lips twisted in a frown though he did not move. Not for the first time since his rescue, he was unsure what to make of Haytham’s behaviour. “Why are you still here?” he asked hoarsely. 

Haytham tensed as he felt Connor shift closer and curl against him, then relaxed again, his heart warming despite himself. He hadn’t initiated the contact so it seemed permissible to allow it. Closing his eyes, he was soon asleep.

Despite having had the thought before he fell asleep that he should wake up early and leave Connor’s bed before he was caught, Haytham did not so much as stir until he was woken by Connor’s words.

Blinking sleep from his eyes, he abruptly remembered where he was and that he could _not_ be caught there. He looked at Connor, who seemed displeased and a bit puzzled, but had made no attempt to move himself. Perhaps he wasn’t able to.

Haytham carefully disentangled himself from Connor and stood to pull his outer clothes back on. “I apologise for overstaying my welcome,” he said dryly, stretching and stifling a yawn. “I’ll leave you alone again shall I?” Despite his words he lingered to pour another glass of water and hand it to Connor.

Connor took the glass offered to him wordlessly, watching, his expression suspicious and just the slightest bit confused, as Haytham continued to loiter by his bedside. He stared for several seconds more before making a noncommittal noise and shifting onto his side. Slowly, he brought the glass up to his mouth. Water sloshed over the rim, but Connor paid it, and the trembling of his hands, little mind, drinking deeply until nothing remained. With a wet cough, he scooted closer to the edge of the mattress and, wincing slightly, reached out to set the glass back on the nightstand.

His eyes flicked momentarily up at Haytham then away again. “You… do not have to leave yet,” he finally said in a tone that suggested reluctance. Haytham was the last person in Boston he wished to be spending any amount of time with— save for perhaps Charles Lee— but the only other option it seemed was solitude, and Connor found he did not want to be alone. He did not want to pass the day sleeping or staring wistfully out the window or, worse yet, lost in painful memories.

Haytham’s company was tolerable at best, but it was better than none at all. At least, that is what Connor achieved in convincing himself.

“Oh?” Haytham raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Very well then.” He sank back into his chair from yesterday and gave Connor a quizzical look. He was more than happy to remain with Connor and ensure he was cared for but it seemed strange that his son would allow him to do so, considering he was hardly his favourite person at the moment.

He doubted Connor would appreciate it if he pressed him for an explanation however, so he did not ask. Instead he simply regarded him in silence for a moment before saying offhandedly “The doctor is coming back today. How are you feeling?”

The Assassin _seemed_ to be in fairly good shape despite his injuries and any remaining lack of focus from the laudanum, but Haytham knew he was unlikely to complain of being in any pain, lest it be seen as weakness and taken advantage of.

There was no denying the sense of relief that washed over him when, instead of leaving as Connor had expected, Haytham took a seat in the adjacent chair. “I am fine,” he answered curtly and twisted on the bed so that he was once more lying on his back, refusing to reveal, or even acknowledge, just how much pain he was truly in.

The day dragged by slowly. Connor spent much of it sleeping, too weak to remain conscious for extended periods of time and too drained to do much even when he was. Other than the occasional brusque request from Connor, they did not speak, and yet his father rarely left, if at all. He was both the first thing he saw upon waking and the last when he fell asleep. Haytham brought him food, fetched him water, helped him reach the chamber pot— _everything_. Connor didn’t know what to make of it.

The doctor returned late in the afternoon with his apprentice. Tired and still rather feverish from infection, Connor protested only briefly as he was spoon-fed another large dose of laudanum. His dressings were changed and his wounds cleaned and repacked, a process that, though draining, was not nearly as unbearable as it had been the day before.

It had already turned dusk outside by the time the doctor and his assistant left, and Connor was starting to doze off again despite the lack of heat or blankets.

Having found himself to be of the most use by staying at Connor’s side, Haytham had made sure to never stray far from the bedroom in case he was needed. When the doctor arrived to check on Connor’s recovery, Haytham watched quietly from an unobtrusive corner; out of the way but present if needed. It was surprisingly difficult for him to see his son in this injured, weakened state, and he wanted him to recover as swiftly as possible.

It was partly guilt that inspired such dedication, but mostly it was genuine concern for Connor’s wellbeing. He had grown to care deeply for the Assassin; he could admit it now, and had, silently, in those quiet moments of self-reflection when Connor had been asleep. He wanted Connor to be well again, even if the first thing he did was flee as far away from him as his legs could carry him. Haytham rather hoped he wouldn’t, but at least it would mean he was alive and healthy.

In any case, Haytham certainly meant to ensure Connor was as comfortable as possible while he was able, regardless of what happened later. He didn’t expect him to forgive him; not yet, if indeed ever.

For hours, Connor drifted between the hazy borders of sleep and wakefulness, dazed and uncharacteristically still as he lay resting in the position he’d been left, sprawled out on his stomach and clutching the bed’s one pillow.

It was nearly a quarter to midnight when the Assassin finally stirred. Tilting his head to the side, he forced open heavy eyelids. The room was dark save for a few blurry flickers of light— candles, Connor imagined. He started to sit up, then thought better of it when his vision swam and he suddenly went light-headed. Instead, he groaned faintly and tried to roll onto his back.

“Father…?” Were he in his right frame of mind, Connor would have been humiliated to hear how pathetic he sounded, calling out to his father so weakly, desperate for help, for attention.

“I’m still here,” Haytham reassured him gently. He always felt a strange tight feeling in his chest whenever Connor awoke like this, vulnerable and not quite yet alert. That _he_ was the first person Connor called for upon waking didn’t help in the slightest.

Taking note of Connor’s struggles, Haytham stood and carefully assisted him into rolling onto his back, ensuring his pillow and blankets were all in order before sitting back down again. Reaching out he took hold of Connor’s hand with his own and gripped it firmly. When Connor woke up drugged and disoriented like he was now, it seemed to comfort him to know Haytham was near, though he was always less than pleased once his wits had sharpened again.

“Are you all right?” Haytham asked, squeezing his hand.

Connor accepted his father’s assistance without hesitation, too far gone to comprehend much beyond the simple fact Haytham had heard him and responded, that he had not left. “You are still here,” he echoed, voice tiny, as he was gently manoeuvred onto his back and covered in a thick layer of blankets, like he couldn’t hardly believe it himself.

Only when his hand was taken in a warm, firm grip could he begin to relax. “I… believe so,” Connor eventually answered after several long seconds and curled his fingers around Haytham’s palm. He could barely formulate sentences much less decide what was wrong, if anything. “Do you plan to stay?” he then asked, head lolling to the side to pin Haytham with an unsteady yet fond gaze.

The way Connor asked the question was more than enough to tell Haytham he was not simply asking if he would remain by his bedside. He wanted him _close_.

It pained him to be on the receiving end of Connor’s warm gaze, yet he was loath to be parted from it. “I will stay if you wish it,” he answered, though the fact that he’d even been asked, especially in such a hopeful tone, had more or less made up his mind for him. If it would make Connor more comfortable, then how could he say no?

Of course that was to say nothing of his own desires, which urged him to remain as close as possible at all times. He would stay.

Having already settled Connor comfortably into bed, it was a simple matter for Haytham to shed his outer layers of clothing and slip under the covers by his side. It seemed less problematic this time to lie close by, as he’d certainly heard no objections from Connor the previous night. It wasn’t as though they were doing anything _indecent_ , Haytham assured himself. He was not taking advantage, but instead merely offering comfort.

Connor was already attempting to scoot closer before Haytham had even the chance to pull up the bedcovers, using what little strength he possessed to curl up against his father’s leaner frame in a manner that was reminiscent to the way he had the night prior. Face tucked in the crook of Haytham’s neck, it appeared for several minutes that Connor was content to simply rest there, loosely wrapped around the Templar in a close embrace, but it soon became clear that sleep was the furthest thing from his mind.

He pressed a lingering kiss to the underside of Haytham’s jaw. Gentle and affectionate, it would have seemed innocent enough were it not for the hand currently trying to worm its way between his father’s clothed thighs. “I do,” Connor murmured into the heat of Haytham’s skin, brushing trembling fingers over the placket of his trousers. “I do wish for you to stay…”

Haytham wasn’t particularly surprised to feel Connor shift closer to him beneath the covers, though he _was_ shocked to feel his lips against his jaw and his hand between his legs. Freezing in surprise for a moment, he quickly recovered enough to push Connor away with a firm hand.

“Connor,” he said sternly. “We shouldn’t. Not while you’re ill. You don’t know what you’re doing.” It would have been all too easy to have let Connor continue - it wasn’t as though he hadn’t missed his son’s touch – but he would not make the same mistake twice. The last time he had had sex with Connor while the Assassin was under the influence of laudanum he had felt truly monstrous afterwards. To engage him while he was in this state would be no better than if he had forced him.

“I am sorry,” he added. “But we should wait until you are recovered.” The thought did occur to him that Connor would not want him when he was properly lucid again, but he pushed it away. That was irrelevant; he would still not take advantage of him in this way.

For the briefest of moments, Connor appeared genuinely confused, brows creased together and lips drawn in a tight frown, before the expression vanished, replaced by a lopsided smirk. “Do not be ridiculous, father. I am fine,” he insisted, already leaning back in to snag Haytham’s lips in a kiss, determined to prove to the Templar that his worries were for naught.

He was a bit under the weather and his leg  _was_  rather sore, that much Connor could concede, but he wasn’t so unwell he could not participate in such a base activity like sex. Surely Haytham could see that.

Fumbling to open the placket of his father’s breeches, Connor pressed up against the length of Haytham’s body, half-hard and eager despite the older man’s obvious reluctance. He palmed the front of Haytham’s trousers, having since given up on unbuttoning them, and nuzzled the hard line of the Templar’s jaw. “I want you.”

Determined as he was to pull away, Haytham couldn’t deny the stir of arousal he felt as Connor’s hand renewed contact with his cock. His resolve was weakened further by Connor unexpectedly capturing his mouth in a kiss, so much so that for a moment he could do little more than lie stationary and accept it, for a brief moment even going so far as to kiss back.

His wits soon caught up with him however, forcing him to pull away again and cursing himself inwardly for rising to the bait. The last thing he should have been doing was encouraging Connor’s behaviour.

It was very difficult to push Connor away however, his body warm and solid along Haytham’s own as he pressed closer, expressing his words of desire in a low heated growl. The longer Haytham hesitated, the more his resolve threatened to crumble. Steeling himself, he wrenched himself free and climbed back off the bed.

“Forgive me, Connor,” he said quietly, feeling a stab of guilt for refusing his son anything while he was at his most vulnerable. “I believe it would be best if I slept alone tonight.”

Connor made a weak grab for Haytham’s arm as he rolled off the bed, but his fingers only skimmed fabric. Arousal all but forgotten, he attempted to sit up, expression an open mixture of hurt and confusion when Haytham stood upright and proceeded to reject his advances for a second time. Perhaps he had been serious all along. “ _No_ ,” Connor suddenly exclaimed after several seconds, growing increasingly panicked the more it became clear Haytham intended to leave. “Wait— please.”

Had he done something wrong? Haytham had never been one to turn down sex in any of its forms. Certainly it couldn’t be due to his injuries. Connor had sustained a number of wounds over the course of the past few weeks, none of which had given either of them any pause before. So why now would Haytham refuse? With a sharp pang of worry, it occurred to him that his father had possibly grown bored of his company and did not desire him anymore. Or perhaps he had already found someone else, someone better, someone more aligned with his ideals and goals. The thought pained him tremendously.

“I am sorry,” Connor spouted frantically. “Please,” he tried once more, “I will not touch you again. Do not leave.”

Haytham’s heart clenched to hear Connor’s pitiful pleas, begging him not to leave. He knew staying would not be the sensible option however. The longer he remained in the room with Connor, the higher chance that he would be tempted back into bed which would most likely result in him doing something he’d regret.

“Try to sleep,” he said softly, smoothing the blankets back down again. “I will return in the morning.” Forcing himself to ignore Connor’s panic, he gathered his clothes and quietly left the room without looking back.

It was for Connor’s own good, he told himself, letting himself into his own room. He might even realise it after a good night’s sleep. The knowledge that he’d made the right decision didn’t make Haytham’s bed any warmer or more welcoming as he slipped beneath the covers however.

Guiltily hoping that Connor wasn’t too upset, it was a while before Haytham was finally able to fall into an uneasy slumber.

Neither the careful way Haytham straightened out the bedcovers nor his gentle promise to return come morning did anything to assuage Connor’s mounting worry, yet there was little the injured Assassin could do but stare forlornly from the bed as his father gathered his clothing and briskly left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

He watched for what must have been hours, hoping against all odds that the handle would turn and Haytham would stride back in at any moment.

He never did. In the end, exhaustion won out and he slipped into a restless sleep.


	23. Chapter 23

Nine hours later found Connor awake once more, weak yet lucid as he groaned and twisted onto his side to better view his surroundings. The bedroom was empty, and Connor wondered at the twinge of grief he felt until memories from the previous night began to roll over him in fragmented waves. His cheeks burned an angry, humiliated red once he recalled his promiscuous behaviour. He’d behaved most inappropriately, clambering and fawning over his father like a common harlot, and Haytham—…

Haytham had turned him away.

In his inebriated state, the Templar could have done anything he pleased and Connor would have welcomed his actions wholeheartedly. So what had stayed his hand?

Having slept rather fitfully, Haytham was almost relieved to wake up and find that morning had come. After dressing himself swiftly, he let himself into Connor’s room, eager to check on his wellbeing after the previous night’s altercation.

He found Connor already awake and looking rather unhappy, though with whom Haytham couldn’t be certain. He hoped he had forgiven him for his rapid departure last night.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, hesitating slightly before closing the door behind himself. He crossed the room and settled back into his usual chair, fixing Connor with a concerned look.

Connor picked up the heavy thud of footsteps coming from outside in the hallway long before the bedroom door creaked opened. An unidentifiable emotion swept over him when in walked Haytham, dressed impeccably as always if looking a little worse for wear, and the Assassin had to fight to keep his expression masked. Was it relief? Embarrassment? Shame?—Connor couldn’t be certain. In the end, he did what he often did when faced with a feeling he did not comprehend and pushed it away.

Already, he was struggling into a sitting position, using both his undamaged arm and leg to push and pull his way up to rest heavy against the wood of the headboard, catching his breath.

“I want to stand up,” he said after a few minutes, pointedly ignoring Haytham’s question, his tone borderlining on bossy. It was probably unwise to attempt to stand so soon, and Connor had a strong suspicion his father would object, but he was restless from lying in bed all day and would try with or without Haytham’s assistance.

Haytham regarded Connor in silence for a few moments, not particularly surprised that the Assassin had decided to ignore the events of the previous night. He hoped Connor knew that Haytham had no intention of holding it against him, though he suspected he was embarrassed by his lapse of judgement all the same.

“Do you think that’s wise?” he asked finally, in response to Connor’s imperious declaration. He could understand that Connor must be sick of being bedridden – certainly he himself would be in such circumstances – but Connor’s leg hadn’t healed enough to support his weight just yet. The last thing he needed was to accidentally injure himself further.

Connor didn’t deign the question with an answer, too stubborn to admit that no, it was likely  _not_ a wise decision to try standing while the wound in his thigh was still open and healing. Instead, he began to edge over to the side of the bed, taking advantage of the headboard and nearby nightstand to anchor his unsteady grip. Connor had single-handedly destroyed ships, raced through battlefields, avoided the hangman’s noose, escaped burning buildings as well as succeeding in countless other acts that most would deem impossible— surely he could manage something as simple as getting out of bed, even while injured.

“If you are not going to help me, then move out of the way so that I may do it myself,” the Assassin snapped perhaps a bit more brusquely than he intended and, grimacing in pain, pushed back the bedcovers to gingerly help coax his bandaged, left leg over the edge of the mattress, which was then followed slowly by the right. Both feet on the floor, Connor braced his palms on the bedside table, vision swimming as he tried to mentally, and physically, prepare himself for the feat he was about to attempt. He put much of the pressure on his good leg as he stood, hunched over the night stand, but it did little to curb the fire that tore up the other and Connor couldn’t help the way his face twisted in agony. He did not stop, however, desperate to move, to walk, to sit by the fire or to doze outside— anything other than be confined to a day in bed.

“Give-… Give me my clothing.”  

Haytham gave him a look of concern mixed with exasperation; an expression that was swiftly becoming habitual as he was continually faced with Connor’s ridiculous bursts of bullheadedness.

“Don’t be a fool,” he snapped. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Connor would not listen to reason however, so with a long-suffering sigh, Haytham retrieved his newly-washed and repaired clothing and handed it to him. If Connor was going to stay up, the last thing he needed was to catch a chill.

“You really are infuriating,” he muttered without any real heat, carefully averting his gaze from the Assassin’s bare form.

“No more infuriating than you,  _father_ ,” was Connor’s spiteful reply as he snatched his clothing out of Haytham’s grasp and stuffed them under his bandaged arm, a rash decision that nearly caused him to topple over. He stumbled, gasping in pained shock when, in his haste to regain his balance, he bore too much weight on his injured leg.

Connor grappled at the nightstand, knuckles bone-white and limbs shaking from exertion. Perhaps his father was right— perhaps he was being a fool. He could hardly stand much less walk. Maybe he should-…

 _No_ , Connor thought determinedly as he slowly and shakily relaxed his grip. He refused to give up, not now, not when he had already come so far.

Using what little strength he had left, he staggered over to the chair Haytham often occupied and crumpled into it like a child’s rag doll. He pulled the mound of clothes onto his lap. Several minutes passed before the Assassin spoke again. “You had them mended. My robes,” he commented, tone guarded, “Why?

Haytham rolled his eyes as he watched Connor struggle to support himself against the furniture. Perhaps he’d be more sympathetic if Connor stopped being so stubborn, even if only for a moment. He was too proud to ask for help, he knew, but he wished he possessed enough common sense to know when to admit defeat.

The Templar exhaled quietly in relief when Connor at last sat down on the chair, thankfully without injuring himself in the process.

“You had to have _something_ to wear,” Haytham replied reasonably. “And somehow I didn’t think you’d agree to wear anything else, so they may as well be _clean_.”

The thought had occurred to Haytham to purchase some brand new clothing for Connor, but from what he knew of the boy, it seemed unlikely he would accept such a gift. Therefore having his torn and bloodied robes mended seemed the next best option – as well as the most agreeable to the Assassin.

He hesitated, wondering how difficult it would be for Connor to dress himself in his condition. He knew he would neither ask for nor accept any assistance, so Haytham would have to hope that remaining seated in the chair would be sufficient for making the process easier for Connor.

“Shall I leave to let you get dressed?” he asked pleasantly.

Connor stared at Haytham as if scrutinising him before turning his attention back to his newly-mended ensemble. He raised his Assassin’s coat by the fabric of its shoulders, expression visibly suspicious, and paused to inspect what all had been done. It was rather odd, Connor thought… Haytham going out of his way to have it cleaned and mended when he could just as easily had it destroyed. It certainly would not have surprised Connor if he had done— the coat was directly linked to the Brotherhood, after all— and yet here it was, whole again with nary a speck of blood or dirt to be found. It must have cost a tremendous amount.

“No,” Connor found himself saying, setting the coat aside on the bed. Picking up the remainder of his clothing one by one, all just as clean, he put them to the side too. “That is not necessary.” The more stubborn part of him refused to admit he didn’t wish Haytham to leave because he wasn’t certain he would be able to get dressed on his own. With his father still there, at least, Connor would likely be spared the indignity of asking for help if it came down to it. “And… thank you… For fixing them. I know you did not have to,” he murmured and he reached for his underclothes, although he wasn’t sure why he was thanking  _him_  for anything. Despite knowing his capture was his largely own fault, Connor couldn’t help but also blame the Templar as well.

Careful not to jostle his leg much, Connor slowly leaned down to loop the legs of his drawers around each foot and pulled them up to his knees. It then seemed to occur to him that, in order to tie and lace them up properly, he would need to stand. The Assassin glanced at Haytham but said nothing as he braced a hand on the nearby mattress, trying shakily to rise to his feet while also keeping a hold on his underdrawers.

Haytham averted his gaze so he couldn’t be accused of staring, but was sure to keep an eye on Connor all the same, in case his assistance was required. As it did in fact seem to be thought Haytham, as he watched Connor struggle to stand in order to pull on his underclothes.

The Templar sighed quietly, approaching his son to steady him so he could use his hands to dress himself instead of for support. “Lean on me,” he urged quietly. “Or you’ll be here all day.” He cautiously wrapped an arm around Connor’s waist to hold him upright, trying not to think too hard about the expanse of smooth bare skin he was currently holding to himself.

“It won’t be long now until you can walk again,” he commented, seeking to distract the Assassin from the situation. “Where do you suppose you’ll go?”

It was difficult not to give into his instincts and pull away. In the weeks before  _the incident_ , Connor had been content to allow his father to touch him whenever and however he pleased.  
There had been no caution, no real apprehension, in the way they’d interacted with one another. Of course, the animosity between them was an ever-present thing, lurking in the shadows like a snake just waiting for the right moment to strike, but Connor liked to believe he had trusted Haytham, had possibly even loved him despite how inappropriate the sentiment may have been.  
Now, he only wished to put as much distance between himself and Haytham as possible.

“I do not see how that is any of your business,” the Assassin lashed out sharply. The ‘away from you’ was more than obvious in the tone of his voice.

Doing his best to ignore the arm wrapped securely around his waist, Connor leaned forward to tug his drawers up his thighs and over his hips. He fumbled with the laces, pretending he wasn’t panting nearly as hard as he was and acting as though he were not leaning so heavily against the man behind him.

Only once he was confident his underclothes were secure did he turn to reach unsteadily for his trousers. With no small amount of bitterness, Connor twisted to look at Haytham as best he could. “I suppose you will be happy once I am gone.”

Haytham pointedly ignored the way Connor stiffened in his hold, pleased that he at least recognised the necessity of his assistance if he was to successfully dress himself. His son’s words did sting however, for all that he knew he hadn’t really had the right to ask about his intentions.

He exhaled quietly in annoyance at Connor’s assertion that he wanted him to go. While his guilt regarding the current situation was still very much present, the whole thing was beginning to become rather tiresome. He had no way of convincing Connor that his cruel words had been untrue however.

“’Happy?’ No,” he replied honestly. “Especially not after you’ve proved how incapable you are of defending yourself,” he couldn’t help adding, perhaps unwisely. He couldn’t make Connor stay, and didn’t intend to try, but he could already tell he was going to fret rather terribly the moment the Assassin was out of his sight.

At Haytham’s stark response, Connor paused minutely in his efforts to step into his trousers before continuing on as if nothing had happened. He was uncomfortably aware of the way the arm around his waist tightened, holding him firm as he slowly and stiffly bent over. It was horribly indecent— and also a position he had found himself in on more than one occasion. Connor couldn’t help but remember Haytham’s words while struggling with the waistband.  _‘…- do not be so foolish as to believe you have gained my affection or my loyalty with your willingness to spread your legs.’_   

Connor grimaced, though from physical pain or something else entirely, he wasn’t sure.

He drew his breeches up from his ankles and past his knees. With one hand still gripping the fabric, the Assassin straightened and, trying not to snag the bandages decorating his thigh, tugged the trouser legs the rest of the way up. Clumsily buttoning the placket shut, Connor couldn’t have torn away from Haytham faster.

He dropped down in the chair rather heavily, injured leg splayed out in front of him, weak and useless. “That was not my fault,” Connor eventually growled through his laboured breathing, “If you had not-…” he started but stopped himself. “It does not matter. When I am able, I will do what I should have from the very beginning and  _leave_.”

Haytham drew back to give Connor back his space once he sat down, no longer requiring his assistance. Despite himself he couldn’t prevent a flicker of unhappiness from crossing his face at Connor’s words. He knew they were well overdue for some time spent apart from one another, but he could only hope it served to soften some of Connor’s anger and resentment towards him.

At the very least he doubted it could be any less effective than his apologies and repentance had proved to be. But then Haytham supposed he had really known better than to expect he could smooth things over so easily while the emotional scars he’d inflicted were still so raw.

“It’s probably for the best,” he answered finally, the slight slump of his shoulders the only sign of his inward sense of defeat and regret. 


	24. Chapter 24

_It’s probably for the best.’_

Connor wasn’t sure what he had hoped to achieve, slipping away in the dead of night several weeks after hearing those words from Haytham’s lips. Even now, six months on, hanging outside Haytham’s townhouse window in New York, he wasn’t certain what he thought to accomplish.

He’d left alone, penniless and weapon-less with nary but the clothes on his back. It had been downright foolish in retrospect— with his injuries still in the process of healing, he would have been an easy target for both Templar and guard alike– but Connor had no desire to remain in the company of enemies any longer than necessary. More than anything else, though, he did not want to be around his father. Not anymore.

Once upon a time, Connor might have called upon his fellow Brothers for help. Duncan, Stephane and Clipper would have gladly taken him in and seen to it that he got to where he was needed, however, Connor went to none of them. Instead, he scoured the streets of Boston, anonymous and living day by day, searching for any clue as to what happened to his abandoned weaponry. He learned quickly that most of his stolen belongings had been destroyed while some of it had been bartered away by the prison guards to both local and foreign merchants. In the end, Connor only succeeded in tracking down his bow and hidden blades. His quiver, pistols, money and supplies— all gone; his prized Assassins’ tomahawk along with them.

Connor tried not to blame Haytham for their loss but found it a difficult feat.

With no funds to secure a horse, he departed Boston soon after on foot. The Templar information he had garnered was now useless thanks to his infirmities, but it was clear from his own assertions that the Assassin presence in the city was as strong as ever and his presence in the area was unneeded. He was confident his men would neither give up nor fall, and as he stepped through the city gates, bow slung over his shoulder and a satchel of dried meats in his hand, Connor placated himself in knowing they would continue to fare well without him. He would write to them as soon as he was out of Boston and explain the situation.

Only ‘soon’ did not happen.

His initial plan had been to return to the Homestead, but the prospect of facing Achilles after the trials and pains he had faced in the past two months was a daunting one. He yearned for ‘home,’ but the fact still remained that he had all but vanished in the eyes of the Brotherhood. Weeks had gone by without sign or word of his safety, and Connor was positive his Mentor would be livid. Confronted with the carelessness of his actions, he wasn’t convinced he could go back— not yet, not when his heart had yet to mend.

The people of the Homestead were his closest friends and Achilles was as dear to him as a father, but he needed time alone, to heal both physically and mentally away from prying eyes and ears. He needed time to forget about Haytham.

So he had stopped.

For several months, he stopped.

On the easternmost border of Massachusetts, he camped around the dense and snowy forests of a small town named Medford, hunting game and making do off the land. He spent many of his days out in the woods, thinking and reflecting on his life, but occasionally, he would venture into Medford to sell his kills much to the townsfolk’s displeasure. Nonetheless, they always seemed pleased enough with what he had to offer, and soon Connor had replaced much of the weapons, equipment and supplies he had lost. Their quality did not hold a candle to what he had owned before his capture in Boston, but it was a start and he could not continue without adequate stability and protection. He could set about returning his arsenal to its proper state once he was back on the Homestead. Right then, he was simply happy to have food and arms.

It wasn’t until his fourth month of being there that he set out again. Yet not in the direction of the Homestead, but New York— to try and find Haytham. He had come to a number of conclusions during his prolonged isolation, some pleasant and some not so much. Regardless, he was going to settle this once and for all.

It was a three-week journey, even with the horse he’d managed to procure along the way, and the day he reached the city’s walls, spring had just begun to peek through the heavy curtains of winter. A week passed before he was finally able to track down his father’s private residence outside of Fort George, and it would be many more days after that before Connor, hooded and the time well after midnight, would climb the alley wall to rap at one of the manor’s second floor windows.

The last six months had certainly taken their toll on Haytham. It had been a shock to wake up one morning and find Connor gone without a trace. He had expected it eventually of course, especially once Connor was recovered, but he hadn’t predicted how hard his son’s disappearance would hit him until it actually happened. It was like being struck by a physical blow; a feeling that would only intensify as time continued to pass.

For the first couple of weeks, Haytham was able to maintain hope that Connor would begin to miss him and return one day, and so he made his excuses and continued to stay on in Boston.

Eventually he was forced to admit defeat however, and rode back to New York alone. Retracing their steps from Boston back to New York really helped to drive home the message.

Connor was gone.

Upon returning to New York, Haytham had decided it was best to move on with his life, and immersed himself back in Templar affairs. In the beginning he even succeeded at distracting himself, as his absence from New York had resulted in quite a pile-up of his various responsibilities as Grand Master.

He’d decided to situate himself in his own estate rather than back in Fort George however, having been far too glad to be free of its constricting walls to return so soon. And - though he tried not to think about it – he didn’t much like the idea of sleeping alone in his bed at Fort George, after so many enjoyable nights spent in it with Connor.

So, after moving his books and belongings to his New York townhouse, he had reorganised his household with new servants and kitchen staff and busied himself with coordinating the movements of his New York Templars.

He supposed, in retrospect, he’d been holding onto the hope that Connor would return, or send him a letter, anything to let him know he was still alive and well.

A month passed and he’d still heard nothing, not even from his spies or agents with regards to the whereabouts of the Native Assassin.

Another month passed, and then another, and Haytham began to retreat back into himself, interacting less and less with his fellow Templars.

Connor could be hurt - or worse - and he had no way of knowing.

At first he grew angry, frustrated at Connor’s insistence of being so melodramatic by more or less dropping off the face of the earth.

Gradually his anger faded to a kind of numbness and apathy, and for a short period of time nothing seemed important.

Then the cold wave of chilling realisation broke over him.

He was never going to see Connor again.

He was mostly likely dead.

And it was all his fault.

With these thoughts came intense guilt and self-loathing, and he shut himself up in his office for days on end, refusing to eat or sleep in the wake of his grief.

How could this have happened _again_? Was he cursed to lose everyone he ever grew to care for? Given his past history, it certainly seemed so.

Even Charles couldn’t break him out of his spiral of despair, though he certainly tried. In the end Haytham simply snapped and sent him straight back to Boston, unable to stomach being around a man who could only ever be happy at Connor’s disappearance.

Almost half a year had passed before Haytham finally reached a state loosely resembling acceptance. At the very least he was able to function again, though it was with little thought or feeling.

It was one night during this period of grief that he heard a knock on his bedroom window. He was reluctant to climb out of bed but did so, standing to open the curtains and look out.

At seeing the hooded figure outside, his eyes widened and his heart stopped for a moment.

It was Connor.

The myriad of emotions that coursed through Connor as the curtains parted and his father’s face appeared on the other side of the glass were difficult to distinguish. His mind was a muddled mess of fear and apprehension while his heart overflowed with longing and an intense relief the likes of which Connor couldn’t begin to describe. There was anger too. It lurked, undeniably present, in the back of his mind, but all Connor could focus on was the unequivocal happiness he felt at seeing Haytham after so long apart.

He didn’t wait to be let in, instead taking the initiative to slide open the window sash and hoist himself over the sill and into the room. It was dark, almost unbearably so and Connor could just barely make out the Templar’s shadowy form.

“I am sorry to have woken you at this hour, father,” Although it was an apology, the Assassin’s expression remained carefully reserved beneath the hem of his hood, his voice quiet and subdued despite the roiling ball of anxiety that threatened to overwhelm him, “but it could not wait.”  _‘I could not wait.’_

He paused, his head cast to the side, unsure of what to do or what to say now that he finally had the opportunity. For weeks, he had planned what his and Haytham’s reunion might be like— what he would tell him— what his goals were— what tactics he would use…— all of it proved pointless the moment he laid eyes on the man, rumpled and dressed in only his nightclothes.

“I… missed you,” Connor suddenly and hurriedly muttered, gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

Haytham stepped back to let the Assassin pass as he opened the window and climbed through, unable to believe what he was seeing.

Connor was _here?_

Struck speechless for a moment, he eventually found his tongue long enough to say “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

The longer he stared at his son, the closer he came to comprehending what he was actually seeing. For a moment he was afraid to blink, thinking Connor would disappear again as part of some cruel figment of his imagination.

He reached out with one hand, needing to determine that Connor really was there. The moment his hand met Connor’s shoulder, a slight tremor went through his own weakened frame, and he hissed in a breath.

“I thought you were dead,” he admitted softly, removing his hand. “I thought...-” he broke off, the past few months’ grief combining with a sudden overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude that brought him quite literally to his knees.

There was still too much of his ironclad self-discipline left in him for him to actually weep, though a telltale shudder did travel through his exhausted and guilt-ridden form.

Frozen in place, there appeared a moment Connor battled with what to do. Never had he seen his father so exposed and raw in his emotions. He looked… _broken_ …. and it tore the Assassin’s heart to pieces. The wall he’d patched and rebuilt in Haytham’s absence began to crack and crumble. The wariness and distrust he felt upon entering the room started to melt away. Nothing could have prepared him for this.

Connor knelt on the floor in front of the Templar in spite of his better instincts and immediately threw his hood back over his head. He searched Haytham’s face, brows creased in visible concern, his lips twisted in a frown. “I am not dead.”

Not for the first time, he felt guilt for not having written anyone. He had posted to Achilles once when he’d travelled into Medford to sell some hide, to tell him that he was safe and explain his situation as best he could. He had said not to worry, that he had not abandoned the cause nor would he, but asked that no one else be informed of his whereabouts. Apparently, Achilles had honoured his request. For surely Haytham, with his cunning and resources, would have discovered he was alive and well if the other members of the Brotherhood had been notified. He would not have thought him dead.

“Forgive me,” Connor found himself apologising again, “I was angry. I needed to be alone, to think— I…” His voice cracked. “I did not realise-…” – did not realise that you had been telling the truth all along, Connor thought as he tugged Haytham forward for a bruising kiss.

There was a split-second of hesitation where Haytham froze, uncertain of how to react – of how he was _allowed_ to react – and then he was kissing back fiercely, the familiar feeling of Connor’s mouth against his the final piece in convincing him of his son’s return.

Forced to break away to breathe, Haytham couldn’t resist wrapping both arms around Connor and drawing him close, the thought crossing his mind that he didn’t ever want to let him go. The thought was foolish and selfish he knew, but in that moment he wanted nothing more than to hug Connor tightly to himself and breathe him in.

“There’s no need to apologise,” he murmured roughly, resting his head on the Assassin’s shoulder. “What matters is that you’re back.”

Having calmed down considerably, Haytham finally relinquished his hold on Connor, moving back slightly to look him up and down properly. His son looked tired but healthy, he was pleased to see.

“You will stay here tonight,” he said firmly, with a hint of his old sternness. “I can have a bed made up for you in a spare room, or...” he trailed off, uncertain again. It would be unwise to expect too much of Connor so soon, and sharing one’s bed was quite an intimate affair, even if only to sleep.

After his self-imposed exile over the last half year, Connor expected to feel a twinge of discomfort at the very least when he was suddenly pulled into a strong embrace, but once the initial shock had passed, Connor was surprised to find how easily he sunk into his father’s familiar touch. Hesitantly, he wrapped both arms around Haytham’s middle where they remained until Haytham pulled away to look him over.

He tried not to appear too flustered as his appearance was scrutinised. Connor was certainly no stranger to living off the land and could get by on the barest of essentials, and while he  _was_ healthy, true, there were certain amenities only civilisation could provide. A hot bath had been a luxury Connor couldn’t afford, instead taking every few days to make the trek over to the Malden River to bathe, and his clothing hadn’t been thoroughly washed or mended in weeks. It just hadn’t felt necessary. Although now, under the examining eye of his father, Connor wished he had put more time and money into his personal upkeep. He probably looked a right mess to the normally-impeccable Grand Master.

He supposed he should feel thankful Haytham had yet to comment on his hair, or lack thereof. Connor had no wish to explain the significance behind it, not yet. The conversation was inevitable— it was half the reason he had returned, after all— but it was not one he wanted to have so soon after his arrival. For the first time in his life, it seemed Haytham was truly happy to see him. Connor didn't want to ruin it by talk of Assassins and Templars. 

“I did not come back to sleep in the spare room,” the Assassin responded staunchly and stood up, tugging Haytham up with him. He stared at the Templar for a few more seconds before taking the few steps over to the open window and shutting it.

“Well then,” Haytham replied, surprised but pleased as he let Connor pull him to his feet. Given that the object of all his worries was now proven to be safe and sound, the exhaustion that had built up over the past few weeks threatened to overpower him.

Therefore it was with considerable relief that he climbed back into bed, his weariness making his limbs and eyelids heavy. He was already well on his way to being asleep before his head even hit the pillow, and before long he’d drifted into the most peaceful sleep he’d had in months.

Connor watched fondly as Haytham stumbled back into bed without question, and in that moment, the Assassin knew he had made the right decision in returning. There were still obstacles to overcome, problems to solve, differences to settle… but it all seemed so inconsequential now that he was finally there, his father lying in bed not but a few feet away. For the first time in many, many months, Connor could say he felt truly  _hopeful_ for the future. A small smile twitched at the corner of his lips.

Stripping down to his shirt and trousers, he peeled back the plush bedcovers and slid beneath them next to dozing Templar. He hated possibly dirtying such fine material with his dirt and grime, but how could he refuse the opportunity to sleep next to Haytham after so long apart? He couldn’t deny he had missed waking to his father’s warm body next to his terribly.

“Goodnight, father,” Connor murmured, pressing a long overdue kiss to Haytham’s cheek then settled down into the mattress. Exhausted from his journey and hunt for Haytham, it wasn’t long before he nodded off as well.

When Haytham awoke the next morning, he was certain he had dreamed the whole thing and for a moment his throat tightened as his sense of loss was felt anew. Upon opening his eyes however, he found his bed was not quite as empty as he’d assumed.

Just like he’d used to, Connor had managed to tuck the entire length of his body against Haytham, holding himself close with an arm thrown haphazardly across his father’s waist. Haytham relaxed at once, feeling a surge of affection – and dare he say it, love - for the young Assassin.

Reluctant to disturb him, Haytham decided to take a moment to simply enjoy the sight of Connor’s peaceful features, the sunlight that peeked through the cracks in the curtains allowing him a better view than last night had afforded.

His hair was all shaved, he noted with a frown, lightly tousling the remaining patch along the top of his skull. He wondered at the significance of it, and thought to mention it to Connor later.

In the meantime though...

Shifting slightly, Haytham turned to face Connor properly, still marvelling at the fact that he was here, in his bed once more. It filled him with indescribable happiness, and he gave into the urge to press his mouth to Connor’s.

The moment their lips met, there was a knock on the door, followed by the turning of the knob.

Haytham cursed under his breath – he’d forgotten about the servants! – and swiftly untangled himself from Connor’s hold, moving over so they wouldn’t be found in such a compromising position.

“Good morning, sir!” the servant said cheerily as he walked in. He paused as he took in the sight of a stranger in his master’s bed.

“He’s my son,” Haytham explained quickly, following the man’s gaze. “He arrived quite unexpectedly late last night and I didn’t want to disturb the staff to have a room made up for him.”

“Very good, sir,” the servant said calmly, crossing the room to open the curtains. “I’ll see that a room is prepared for tonight.”

“Thank you,” Haytham replied, hoping the servant wasn’t suspicious. That was the last thing they needed.

Having finished preparing the room for the day, the servant moved to stand by the door. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Haytham, and sighed quietly in relief as the servant bowed and left.

It was to the feel of a warm mouth against his own and a sharp rapping sound that Connor woke the following morning. His mind, muddled with sleep as it was, couldn't quite determine who or what was making such a loud racket at so early an hour, but he supposed it didn't matter. He was in New York, he was groggily reminded; he had found Haytham. It was Haytham's bed he was lying in, Haytham's arms around him, Haytham's lips upon his-...

 _'_ _Good morning, sir!'_

Eyes that had been slowly blinking open flew wide just as his father tore away from his grasp. Jostling the bed in his panic, Connor scrambled to get up only to succeed in tangling himself further in the bed sheets. He'd spent days garnering every bit of information he could about his father's new life, and that included his staff. How could he have  _forgotten_?

Haytham was already 'explaining' the situation before the Assassin even managed to extricate his limbs from the blankets, and the by the time Connor's feet were on the floor, the servant had already gone.

"When did you get _servants_?" the Native hissed, eyeing the closed door warily, not nearly alert enough to pretend he wasn't as flustered by what had happened as he was. 

Connor’s scandalised tone made Haytham chuckle slightly as he pulled himself out of bed; the closest thing to a laugh he’d had in weeks.

“When I decided to move from Fort George,” the Templar replied. “I suppose I could have done without, but I welcomed the extra assistance after...” He trailed off. “In any case, I apologise for not having warned you. It completely slipped my mind last night.”

Haytham would have liked nothing more than to pull Connor back into bed and give him a proper welcome, but it wasn’t worth the risk of being caught by one of the servants – one close call was more than enough for one morning.

He sighed quietly to himself. Perhaps later.


	25. Chapter 25

Once they were dressed, Haytham led Connor down to his dining hall for breakfast.

“Now,” he began warmly, once they were seated and served. “Let’s have a proper talk, shall we? I won’t deny I’ve been worried while you’ve been gone. What on earth have you been up to?”

“Nothing,” Connor said simply, already busy spooning heaping portions of food onto his plate. It had been days since he’d eaten a decent meal, and if he were honest, the selection of porridge, cold cuts, pastries and bread was the most appetising he’d laid eyes on in months.

“I went north— to Medford.” It was said with a small amount of forcedness. His time alone in the woods was not the most pleasant of topics for the Assassin and certainly not one he was keen to talk about so openly, but he was more than aware he owed his father some sort of explanation. “I needed time to… re-evaluate… my plans.” Digging into a small fruit pie with his fork, he glanced at Haytham across the table. “I realised I wanted you to be a part of them.” That was all Connor would say on the matter as he raised the fork to his mouth. Perhaps there would come a time when he could speak plainly about what he’d gone through during that half year, but now was not then.

Glancing around the room, Connor levelled Haytham with a hopeful yet serious stare. “I want to form an alliance.”

Haytham paused in buttering his bread, looking up to fix Connor with a wary expression. “An alliance,” he repeated calmly. “Between whom? The two of us? Do you require my help with something?”

Connor had been carefully vague about his activities during his absence, Haytham had noticed. He was so happy to see him again he wouldn’t mind in the least if Connor had brought some kind of trouble back with him, though he’d have been very surprised if he had actually come here to ask for help.

“Or do you mean between the Brotherhood and the Order?” he continued, arching an eyebrow. “If so, this is very sudden. Was it not you who said you would rather die than join forces with me?”

To be fair they had come a long way since then, but Haytham was still surprised by the proposal. He wasn’t necessarily opposed – he’d always thought there would be much more progress made if the conflict between Assassin and Templar came to an end – but he wanted to hear Connor make his case before he agreed to anything.

“You kidnapped me and then demanded I betray Washington! – Which I  _still_ refuse to do, by the way! – Of  _course_  I refused!” Connor was quick to snap back, a familiar spark of irritation at Haytham’s smart attitude stirring inside of him. His father could be so  _infuriating_!

The Assassin breathed a frustrated sigh through his nose and set down his fork.

“It does not matter,” Connor eventually said once he was certain his temper was in check, “It is in the past.” He had not returned to talk about the past but the future.

“The thought first occurred to me when we were on the hunt for Church, how much more could be accomplished if only Assassin and Templar were united under a common goal. At the time, it had seemed almost impossible, and perhaps it was, but now-…” Connor’s face shone with pure determination. “Now… With us at the head, I believe it could work.”

Haytham sat back in his chair and regarded Connor seriously. “I agree with the idea of course,” he began, “but it will be rather more difficult than that in practice. Concessions will have to be made – on both sides.”

He sighed. “I suppose you _insist_ upon Washington. I wish you could see his incompetence as clearly as I do.”

Though the issue hadn’t been raised for quite a while, Connor’s unwavering loyalty to Washington was still a source of much frustration for Haytham.

“How can you still support him after everything he’s done?” he demanded suddenly. “What is it that assures your never-ending allegiance to him? Please, explain, because I can’t seem to make any sense of it. He is not the leader this country needs – he is not strong enough to bear the burden of such great responsibility. He will only make more foolish and weak-willed decisions in the future – as he has already proved.”

Aggravation bubbled up in him once again. “And Charles Lee  _is_?” Connor retorted bitterly, meal long forgotten as their conversation grew more and more heated. “You desire control—  _that_  is the reason you want Washington removed. Not to better this country or its people but to better yourselves and your goals.

“I never claimed to like Washington,” he abruptly added, “but I am loyal and will remain so because, regardless of what you believe,  _he_  is who the Colonists want.” Pausing, Connor frowned and looked down at his half-eaten breakfast.

“I want this to work; this… alliance between us. Truly I do,” he implored before continuing with a wilful resolution, “However, so long as I am alive, father, Charles Lee will  _not_  take power.”

“At least Charles has enough of his own insight to see what must be done without Congress looking over his shoulder,” Haytham said waspishly, though he was slightly mollified to hear that Connor’s loyalty to Washington did not stem from anything personal. He had been somewhat under the impression that the two of them were friends, which had been part of what had blinded Connor to the leader’s flaws, but it seemed it was not so.

Of course his undying support of Washington was still an annoyance to Haytham, but he would certainly find it more bearable if Connor did not profess to actually like the man.

Haytham sighed. “At this stage it would be impossible to unseat Washington without plunging the colonies into chaos again,” he admitted. “But I certainly mean to do everything in my power to prevent him from doing anything stupid.”

“Perhaps… I could arrange that,” Connor eventually said with a small degree of hesitance. Washington was far from an incompetent leader, but he was not a stranger to making poor, and often unethical, decisions. If it would help coax Haytham over to his side, Connor would gladly relay political and strategic advice— that he approved of as well, of course— to the newly-appointed Commander-in-Chief. Washington trusted him, respected him and his abilities, even if the Assassin could no longer say the same. He would listen; Connor was almost sure of it.

“If you agree to try and put aside this conflict between us, father… if we can make peace… I will make certain your advice is well heard by Washington and his men.” The hopeful look had returned full-force. Connor leaned forward in his chair, eyes gleaming with both determination and enthusiasm. “There would be no need for Charles Lee.”

Haytham eyed Connor intently, a flicker of intrigue entering his gaze. “So you’re saying you would grant me a degree of influence over Washingon,” he concluded, smiling slightly. “That’s quite an interesting offer.”

If he really thought about it, Charles Lee had never really had a chance to prove that he was as competent a leader as Haytham had hoped he would be. Besides, he would be little more than a figurehead for the broader sphere of Templar influence anyway. But if Connor was serious about Haytham being allowed to affect outcomes from afar, _without_ dispensing with the current leadership, it would be far more... orderly. Which was of course exactly what Haytham had always striven for.

“Very well,” Haytham said at last. “I accept.” With that, he returned his attention to his breakfast with a satisfied air.

Connor couldn’t stop the pleased smile that took over his face as he picked up his fork and resumed eating his fruit pie. A simple agreement was not the end to — there was still much that needed to be talked about and agreed upon if the Brotherhood and Templar Order were ever to unite— but it was a start. One Connor was very happy with. Besides, there would be plenty of time to talk about Assassin-Templar relations later. For now he wanted to focus on  _their_  relationship.

The remainder of breakfast went by pleasantly, their conversation easy, Connor pausing every now and again in his meal to steal a glance at Haytham when he felt his father was not looking. Their only interruption an occasional servant come to refill their glasses. It was strange, Connor thought, having someone wait on him as though he were someone important. He was neither rich nor was he of high position. In fact, he held the lowest status one could possibly have in the Colonies: he was a Native. It seemed… wrong somehow, to be served in this way, but perhaps that was a result of a lifetime of being judged by the colour of his skin.

“Do you have business to attend to today?”

Having dined alone these past few months, it was a nice change for Haytham to have company at his table, especially when it was the sorely missed companionship of his son.

He smiled slightly at Connor’s question. “A poor host I would be if I dismissed you to shut myself up in my office,” he said wryly. “Especially when you’ve only just arrived. In any case, there are no pressing concerns at the moment.”

He would more than welcome the excuse to not return to his work. His office might be less stuffy and cramped than the one he had used in Fort George, but he had mostly been using it as a way to distract himself from his misery. He didn’t relish the idea of returning to it.

“I meant to ask,” he began, effectively changing the subject. “Whatever has happened to your hair?”

Briefly, Connor’s forehead wrinkled in confusion, as if he couldn’t understand why Haytham would be asking him such a question, before he was once again reminded that his staunchly English father wouldn’t know about the implications behind his change of appearance.

“It is customary among my people to shave one’s head in times of war,” he explained, “I was not certain what your answer might be when I returned… and in the chance that you did not accept my offer of peace, I wanted to honour my tribe’s traditions.” Although the words themselves remained unspoken, it was obvious what harsh fact the Assassin was eluding to. If Haytham hadn’t agreed, Connor’s hand would have been forced. To end the Templar influence in the upper Colonies, both Lee and his father would have had to die.

“I am relieved to know it was not necessary.”

Several moments passed and Connor reached up with a hand to touch the thick patch of hair that decorated his centre of his scalp.

“You do not like it,” he finally said, more a statement than a question.

Haytham listened in interest to Connor’s explanation, struck by how differently their reunion could have gone. He was glad they had reached an agreement as easily as they had.

Once he might have been moved to violence against Connor at the drop of a hat if he had thought it was necessary. Now the very thought of it made his chest hurt, and he knew that if such a conflict arose there would be no chance of a happy ending. For either of them.

Connor’s assertion that he disliked his son’s appearance made him smirk slightly, his gaze turning heated as he allowed it to linger over the new style.

“Oh but I do,” he said slowly, voice low and mildly suggestive.

From the moment Connor had arrived, Haytham hadn’t dared to try his luck by pushing for the recommencement of their physical relationship, and though he had been rather pleased that Connor seemed to have no such qualms - if his kiss on arrival was any indication –Haytham was still reluctant to rush into anything too quickly.

However it was an undeniable fact that he still found Connor as attractive as ever, and his new appearance only served to enhance that, not diminish it. It lent his features a new fierceness and intensity which the Templar couldn’t help being rather taken with.

Haytham’s eyes darkened. “Would you like me to show you much?” he asked smoothly.

Connor looked up from his plate to fix Haytham with a mildly puzzled expression. It soon morphed into one of comprehension, then embarrassment, and a hot blush swiftly darkened the Assassin’s cheeks. Even after half a year apart, he knew that look anywhere.

“I might,” he replied coyly. There was no denying his interest had been piqued— he’d spent months out in the woods with naught but his hand and a small bottle of sword oil, after all— but there was also a tinge of uncertainty in his tone. It was true, the goal of forging an alliance was not the only reason he had returned, however… he would be lying if he said the pain and humiliation of his father’s words back at the inn in Boston didn’t linger like an old wound. It would be unwise to jump into his father’s bed so soon after reuniting, and yet-...

Something in Haytham had changed in his absence, although what exactly, he wasn’t sure. Connor didn’t believe he intended to hurt him but, then again, neither had he before.

“What do you intend to do?”

Haytham watched with pleasure as understanding spread across his son’s face.

“Whatever you'd like,” he responded with a sly smile, pleased that Connor hadn’t rejected him outright. If he had Haytham would have respected his wishes and backed off at once, but it seemed that would not be necessary.

Connor did appear hesitant, understandably so thought Haytham, considering the ugly words of his that continued to hover between them. How deeply Haytham had regretted them ever since.

Fortunately it seemed he had been offered a second chance. Hopefully this time he would be able to show Connor just how much had grown to mean to him. He would not make the same mistakes twice, he meant to be sure of that.

The sound of footsteps down the corridor between the dining hall and kitchens was an abrupt reminder that they were not entirely alone.

Haytham refocused his gaze on Connor. “Perhaps we should move this discussion to the bedroom,” he commented, amused.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! 
> 
> Hope everyone had a lovely Christmas, and happy new year for Thursday!

Every instinct screamed for him to put a stop to this while he still could, to not put himself and his trust in the hands of a man who did not yet deserve either.

Connor ignored them, instead nodding and pushing back his chair.

What he was doing was foolish, idiotic even, but Spirits above, he wanted it, wanted  _him_.

They left the dining room and made their way through the manor, up to the Templar’s lavish bedroom. The second the door clicked shut behind them, Connor descended upon Haytham like a hungry wolf.

He shoved him against a nearby wardrobe, gaze intense and predatory. “Do not make the mistake of thinking I have forgiven you,” he warned right before capturing Haytham’s lips in a demanding kiss.

Haytham groaned as he was crushed against the furniture, kissing back hungrily as he pulled Connor closer. _Gods_ , but he’d missed this. He didn’t think he’d even realised how much until he had the Assassin in his arms again.

Connor’s body was a crushing weight against his, and he revelled in the feeling, continuing to kiss him fiercely.

“I understand,” he replied somewhat breathlessly when they finally pulled apart. “I would not ask you to forgive me so quickly.”

Leaning in closer to breathe in the familiar scent of the Assassin he murmured “I’m more than happy to have you here, in this moment,” and pressed a kiss by his ear.

Connor couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through him as tender assurances were whispered in his ear and a pair of subtle lips skimmed his skin. His father’s keen ability to seduce him with words alone was irksome, but the Assassin couldn’t find it within himself to be irritated.

Hand coming up to fist in the fabric of his overcoat, Connor tugged Haytham in for another breathless kiss. Their tongues twined, and Connor growled deep in his throat, devouring the Templar’s mouth like a man starved, only pulling away to pant heavily once his lungs burned for air.

“Fuck me,” he didn’t say so much as demanded. Swearing was not a normal part of his vocabulary, but Connor was long past the point of decency or propriety. It had seemed a millennium since he’d last had his father in this manner— every second he had to wait was a second too long.

Haytham exhaled sharply at Connor’s words, having never heard his son swear before. “You’ve changed,” he growled, warm with affection as he let one hand drop to palm Connor’s arousal through his trousers.

Teasing him with the lightness of his touch, Haytham smirked and amended, “Well, perhaps not entirely.”

Leaning in close again, he kissed Connor fiercely while his hands busied themselves with pulling the sash free from around his waist. Next Haytham worked to unbuckle his belt so he could draw his erection out with one hand and begin to stroke, relishing Connor’s desperation as he swallowed his cries.

Too preoccupied by the hand around his cock and the lips muffling the cries it wrung from his throat, Connor failed to notice the knock at the door then rattle of the handle and creak of wood as it opened.

“Sir, I thought I might ask you… Which bedroom did you wish to have prepared for-…?”

It was a surprise the Assassin didn’t injure himself with how quickly he tore away from Haytham’s touch. His breathing was harsh and panicked as he hastily tried to tuck away his burgeoning erection. Not that it did much good, Connor thought, utterly horrified. It was more than apparent just what father and son had been engaged in doing.

Still fumbling to button the placket of his trousers and tie his sash, Connor couldn’t bear to turn around.

“S-Sir?” he could hear the servant asking from behind. Connor didn’t need to look to guess it was the same servant who had discovered them that morning— only this time, there was no amount of explaining in the world that could justify what had just been seen. They had been caught.

A stream of curses flowed through Haytham’s mind at being caught, while outwardly he took a deep breath and turned to face the mortified servant, determined to remain calm.

Thinking quickly, he crossed the room to his dresser and withdrew a pouch of coins from within a drawer – easily a year’s wages for a servant – before returning and offering it to the man.

“I trust this will buy your silence,” he said, soft and dangerous. “Not a word to anyone,” he added menacingly, voice full of threat. “Or you _will_ regret it.”

The servant nodded slowly, looking petrified, the money clasped loosely in his hand.

“Good,” Haytham was satisfied. “Out.”

Bowing jerkily, the man let himself out and closed the door firmly behind himself, walking briskly down the corridor to get as far away as possible.

Once he’d decided the servant was out of earshot, Haytham returned his attention to Connor, approaching him unhurriedly in case he had changed his mind.

“Well,” he said slowly, resting both hands on Connor’s waist to gently draw him close again. “Shall we continue?”

Heart beating wildly in his chest and adrenaline still surging through his veins, Connor started like a spooked horse when a pair of hands came to settle on his waist before, slowly, he began to relax.

“You did not have to threaten him,” he criticised testily, though he was far more disturbed by the situation itself rather than his father’s handling of it. His current physical state didn’t help matters either.

The servant’s untimely arrival hadn’t completely succeeded in dampening his earlier arousal, and despite the potential danger they now faced, Connor was ashamed to find how easily his mind drifted back to more indecent thoughts. With the Templar pressed flush against his back, whispering suggestively in his ear, Connor had little chance of resisting.

He turned in Haytham’s grasp and glanced at the closed door. “ _Lock it_ ,” Connor husked, already reaching up to pick at the buttons of his shirt.

Haytham smirked at him, pleased to find that Connor hadn’t been so distracted by their interruption that his eagerness had faded entirely.

Obeying his son’s orders, he withdrew his bedroom key from within his coat and turned it in the lock, wondering idly why he hadn’t thought to do so earlier.

Their privacy now taken care of, he turned back to Connor and found him already hastening to undress. Haytham thought this a very sensible course of action and began to follow suit, swiftly working at the buttons and fastenings of his clothing and discarding each layer on the floor.

Once they were both bare, Haytham pulled Connor close again, kissing him deeply. After so long apart, it seemed an incredible luxury to be able to hold his son close and feel his skin against his.

He had, of course, missed the sexual aspect of their relationship as well, but this physical intimacy and closeness was precious, and he meant to treasure it as such.

There were still a myriad of questions that hovered worryingly at the back of Connor’s mind as he undressed. How much money had been in that bag? — Was it enough to buy a servant’s silence? —How many regulars would it take to arrest the two of them? — Would they face their deaths at the hangman’s noose or at the end of a firing squad?

A sudden, heated kiss to his lips instantly wiped clear his thoughts.

If they were to be outed, Connor supposed, he had to concede it would be foolish of them to waste this one last opportunity to take what they both so obviously longed for…

Hands came up to fist in dark grey strands as they kissed, tugging the ribbon binding them free in their wake. It fluttered to the floor to join the rest of their clothing. “Oil,” he panted when they eventually broke apart, in no mood for foreplay, and leaned down to mouth a hot line down Haytham’s neck, mumbling a low “…-want you.”

Haytham shivered with barely suppressed desire at the feeling of Connor’s mouth against his skin, and it was a moment before he was able to focus on the words he’d spoken. Reluctantly pulling away, he moved to open a chest by the wall where he’d stored most of his weapons and personal supplies since returning from Boston.

Withdrawing his bottle of weapon oil, he closed the chest and returned to Connor’s side, handing it to him so he could use it to prepare himself.

He appreciated Connor’s insistence that they cut to the chase, his own impatience bubbling below the surface, especially after the unexpected intrusion of the servant.

He wanted to be inside Connor as soon as possible, his arousal near-painful with need.

Connor didn’t so much as take the bottle as snatch it from Haytham’s hand. It was nearly empty, the young Assassin noticed upon inspection, but it would suffice. Even if just barely. It appeared a trip to the general store would be required soon— that is, if they weren’t turned in for their transgressions first.

Perhaps he should have been ashamed of his own enthusiasm as he padded over to the large four-poster in the centre of the room and climbed onto its plush mound of blankets and downy pillows, but all Connor could think about was how long he had yearned for this exact moment. Erection hanging swollen and heavy between his thighs, Connor braced himself on his hands and knees. Although he would never admit to it, many of his nights had been spent in this same exact position, impaled upon his fingers and keening as he brought himself to completion.

Connor groaned softly at the thought, and pausing to unstopper the vial of oil, drizzled a small amount over his fingers before setting it aside. He could feel Haytham’s heady gaze on him as he snaked a hand behind his back and between the cleft of his rear, spurred on by the fact his father was watching him. Teasing the tight ring of muscle, Connor dipped a finger in up to the first knuckle then pressed further. He repeated the process two more times, carefully working his body open until he was but a shaking, quivering mess, spread wide on his own three fingers plunging deep inside him. Free arm trembling to hold up his weight, the Assassin fought to contain his moans.

“ _Father_ ,” Connor uttered urgently, desperate to be filled and fucked, claimed by his own flesh and blood. “ _Raké:ni_ , now— please,  _now_.”

Haytham watched, utterly transfixed, as Connor climbed onto his bed and began to prepare himself, completely on display for his viewing pleasure.

He swallowed.

The sight that met his eyes was both filthy and erotic, his son’s broad frame trembling as he worked himself open, supporting himself on his hands and knees like an animal in heat desperate to be mounted.

Enthralled, Haytham remained where he was for the moment, hungrily taking in the spectacle as he watched Connor’s slicked fingers slide in and out of himself.

Oh how deeply he had missed this.

At last Connor uttered the words he was desperate to hear.

Haytham surged forward with a ravenous growl, barely pausing to slick up his own cock before he settled into position behind the Assassin. With one savage thrust, he had sheathed himself completely within his son’s tight heat, groaning in pleasure as their bodies were intimately reunited for the first time in months.

It seemed Connor hadn’t forgotten how to drive his father wild, the renewed use of the word ‘raké:ni’ making his body thrum with unbridled lust.

Hands settling on Connor’s waist, Haytham slowly withdrew and thrust back in again, hips rocking forward.

“ _God,_ ” he panted raggedly, grip tightening as he began to move at a solid pace, breaths already laboured.

The noise that escaped Connor as Haytham claimed his body in one brutal thrust was a cross between a grunt and moan. The Assassin’s head bowed, oil-slicked hand dropping to fist in the bed sheets along with the other. His hips rocked of their own accord, desperation overriding everything but the sheer _want_  coursing through him.

It hurt, but the pain was irrelevant. All Connor could focus on was Haytham—Haytham’s powerful grip on his waist, Haytham’s voice, his groans of pleasure, Haytham’s cock deep inside him…

Spirits, it had been too long.

“ _Hén_ ,” Connor gasped followed by a string of filthy curses in Kanien’kéha, arms straining and shaking to hold up his weight until, at last, they couldn’t any more. Overcome, he sank down onto the mattress with a low whine. Cheek pressed against the bed covers, legs splayed and bottom in the air, held firmly in place by his father's grasp, the picture he made was the epitome of obscenity. Connor could not have cared less.

“ _Harder_ ,” he ordered in Mohawk.

Caught in a whirlwind of desire, Haytham was spurred on by the sound of Connor’s mother-tongue, spoken with such fierce desperation. He hoped his words were as indecent as they sounded. The position Connor had now sunk into was even more lascivious than the previous one, his body a long suggestive curve where it was pressed against the mattress. 

Possessed by an almost animalistic fervour, Haytham increased the pace of his thrusts until he was pulling out and slamming back in, hard and deep.

Connor was wonderfully hot and tight around him, his powerful body pinned beneath Haytham and the bed as their hips rocked together, synchronised.

Had he been in a clearer state of mind, Haytham might have felt some concern about the possibility of hurting his son; as it was, the thought barely crossed his mind. He was too caught up in his own state of sheer want, and besides, Connor had done nothing to indicate that the current proceedings were not to his pleasure.

It was the sweetest ecstasy, to be inside the Assassin again after so long apart. During his absence, Haytham had felt too guilty about the way he had treated his son to give himself over to much fantasising, though he’d certainly had days where he’d missed his presence sharply, almost like a physical ache.

Connor’s fingers twisted in the bedcovers, eyes clenched shut as Haytham did exactly as he was commanded and began to drive into him in earnest. Each stroke had the Assassin gasping and grinding back hard against his father’s thrusting hips, still searching for more. The bed creaked and lurched beneath them, but the last thought on Connor’s mind was if anyone would hear. His entire world was narrowed down to himself and Haytham. Nothing else mattered in that moment.

His lips parted in a strangled groan as a particular place within him was suddenly and unexpectedly brushed. He had never truly been able to locate or manipulate the spot with fingers alone, but even after six months, Connor knew exactly what it was he was feeling. When it was grazed again, Connor shuddered. “T-There,” he sputtered breathlessly in English, arching up in a desperate attempt to find the right angle. If he could just-…

Connor jerked as Haytham hit his prostate dead-on.

“Yes,” he hissed once again, still in English, before reaching between his body and the mattress to grasp blindly for his dripping cock, “ _More_.”

Haytham smirked in savage satisfaction as he at last made contact with Connor’s prostate, pleased when it made Connor writhe and arch in pleasure.

They were both close, he could feel it, the familiar and undeniable pressure building at the base of his spine.

With one last roll of his hips, Haytham thrust deeply within Connor and came with a muffled cry, his whole body tensing as it was wracked with waves of pleasure.

It would have been too easy to let himself collapse bonelessly against his son’s broad back, but he resisted, his sated body exerting an effort to remain upright, his hold loosening slightly where his hands still gripped Connor’s waist.

Connor moaned at the sensation of warm heat flooding his insides, barely managing but a few short strokes before he too was claimed by the white-hot pleasure of orgasm.

A minute passed, then two. Slowly, the Assassin came down from his lust-fuelled high, leaving his chest and the blankets below a sticky mess from his release.

Now that the mindlessness of sex had faded, Connor could feel the soreness begin to creep up on him and, limbs trembling from exhaustion, he shifted uncomfortably, still pinned in place by the hands on his waist and his father’s softening erection. He glanced up at Haytham through his lashes from where his face rested, pressed against the mattress.

In that moment, he knew it—  _everything_ — had been worth it.

Still breathless, Haytham carefully pulled out, collapsing rather gracelessly on the bed next to Connor. Upon catching the Assassin’s eye, a fond look crossed his features, and he leaned in to kiss him softly.

“Gods, but I’ve missed you,” he murmured quietly, reaching out to lightly stroke Connor’s cheek. “I hope you know that. Despite my... past behaviour.”

It still didn’t feel sufficient, but Haytham hoped he could better express the depth of his feelings in the near future.

Still, he was glad indeed to be able to lie there, Connor tired and sated beside him. He was almost tempted to let himself drift into sleep, but it was still morning and his strict adherence to an orderly and routine day wouldn’t allow it.

It wasn’t enough to prevent him from staying where he was however, gazing at the familiar lines and curves of Connor’s body with pleasure.

“I believe you made that very clear not moments ago,” Connor commented with the slightest upturn of his lips and turned onto his side so that he was facing the Grand Master. He looked across at Haytham, committing each line, each new scar and wrinkle that adorned his face to memory, expression growing solemn. “I have missed you as well, father.”  _More than you could possibly imagine._ “And although I cannot forgive you— not… yet. I would like to try,” Connor mumbled falteringly, “If you would let me.”

Connor allowed his eyelids to slip closed, but not before pulling his father in for another kiss. He rested his head in the crook of Haytham’s neck. It was morning— there was much to be done— and yet Connor’s body urged him to sleep. He needed to contact Duncan; Clipper; Stephane…

Surely another minute or two would not hurt.

“How much was in the bag?” he eventually puffed against Haytham’s skin.

Haytham’s heart warmed to hear Connor’s words, a rare smile spreading across his features.

“‘Let you?’” he repeated softly. “I should never have let you go in the first place.” Wrapping an arm around his son, he added, “A mistake I won’t soon repeat.”

Turning his body slightly so Connor fit more comfortably against him, Haytham cast his mind back to the pouch of coins he’d given the servant.

“About ten pounds,” he replied, unconcerned. “Why?”

It wasn’t as though he couldn’t spare it – the Order’s coffers might be a lot emptier than they had been twenty years ago, but Haytham himself had never wanted for coin.

“ _Ten pounds_?” the Assassin asked, tone a mixture of surprise and disbelief, and pulled back just enough to fix Haytham with an incredulous look. How wealthy must his father be to have such a large sum of money lying about? He’d lived off of not even a  _fourth_  of that amount during his six-month stay outside Medford, and Haytham acted as though he’d merely given the servant a single guinea and not a small fortune. In the end, he decided it wasn’t worth the fuss.

In no way did Connor approve of bribery, but perhaps… perhaps it had been necessary. Their own safety was at stake, after all.

“I only wished to know how much money was wasted when the guards come to arrest us,” he quipped, only half-joking, and returned his head to the crook of Haytham’s neck, pressing a lingering kiss to the underside of his jaw. Nestling closer, Connor slung an arm around the Templar’s bare waist before effectively changing the subject. “I will need to begin tracing my men today. There is much the Brotherhood needs to know. I trust you will not object…”

“I suppose I could have just killed the man and have done with it, though I suspect you’d have approved of that even less,” Haytham said, amused at his son’s surprise, before chuckling at his mention of the guards.

“I doubt it will come to that,” he replied, making a soft sound of pleasure as he felt the Assassin’s lips against his jaw. “Robert’s far too comfortable and well-paid here to lose his job for the sake of a mere moral grievance.”

“Of course I don't object," he responded after a pause. "Far be it from me to try and keep you from your own people, futile as your cause might be.”

His tone was teasing however. “Besides,” he added. “It’s been quite some time. They must be quite... concerned.”

Haytham could sympathise.

Connor thought to remark on how his ‘futile cause’ now belonged to them both but that was not a subject he wished to broach. For the first time in months, he felt content. Happy, even. The last thing he wanted was disrupt the peace by bringing up something that was best left for later.

“We are allies,” Connor said simply but firmly. “What I do is now your business as well.” He left it at that, instead opting for a less serious and much less volatile topic.

“I do not know how long it will take. I am… anticipating some resistance.” That was putting it mildly, Connor imagined, but his men were nothing if not loyal to him and their cause. He hoped that, with time, they would come to see his plans in a new light. Achilles, on the other hand…— Connor could only pray the old man would listen.

“I will try to be back before sundown.”


	27. Chapter 27

After reluctantly pulling away from each other, the two went their separate ways for the day, each with their own tasks to complete.

The next few days passed fairly uneventfully, both men spending their days busy with various personal errands and jobs for their now shared cause, while their nights were given to delighting in each others’ presence once more, thankfully without any more unwanted interruptions.

Roughly a week after Connor’s arrival at Haytham’s property, Charles Lee decided he’d stayed away for long enough and it was time he returned to New York to check on the Grand Master.

Though he couldn’t quite grasp why it was Haytham was so broken up over the disappearance of the Assassin, it had pained Charles immensely to see the man in such a fragile emotional state, though he’d been unable to disobey when he’d been sent away again.

Now, he felt enough time had passed, and he made the long ride back to New York, determined to ensure his beloved leader hadn’t caused any harm to himself.

Arriving at the city gates, he immediately made his way over to Haytham’s manor and rapped sharply on the front door.

It was answered by a servant whose face lit up in recognition at seeing Charles, remembering him from his last visit.

“Is the master expecting you?” he asked.

“Of course,” Charles lied smoothly, brushing past the man. “Where can I find him?”

“Master Kenway is probably still in his room,” the servant replied. “Though,” he hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “you may wish to knock before entering.”

Charles frowned. That sounded worse than he’d thought. Just what sort of state had Haytham gotten himself into?

There was only one way to find out. Climbing the stairs, Charles made his way to the master bedroom, knocking on the door in warning before pulling it open. At least it wasn’t locked, he thought idly.

“Sir,” he spoke quickly, knowing Haytham probably wouldn’t be pleased to see him back without sending word first. “I apologise for disobeying your orders but I simply cannot continue to-” he broke off abruptly, narrowing his eyes at the resting figure in the large bed.

It was not Haytham.

Connor had never been what many would call a ‘morning person.’ So when there came a brisk rapping at the bedroom door, his initial response was to groan and burrow further into the blankets. “The sun has barely  _risen_ , father,” he protested as the hinges creaked open. His dealings with the Brotherhood had him away for most of the night; Haytham himself had been the one to suggest he have a bit of a lie-in before starting the day, right after treating him to a quick, unexpected handjob.

It didn’t even occur to him that his father would have no reason to knock.

“Can it not wait?” the Assassin grumbled while, at the same time, another voice came from over by the doorway.

It was not Haytham.

Distinctly British, Connor could have sworn it sounded like-…

“ _You!_ ” he growled, eyes snapping open, and bolted out of Haytham’s bed, nearly becoming entangled in the thick covers in his hurry. It only struck him that he was completely and utterly naked once his feet were on the floor, a fact that would have been normal to him under any other circumstance but now had him snarling and flushing in humiliation. Caught between wanting to reach for his smallclothes and find a weapon, Connor grasped the edge of the bed sheets and pulled them up to hide his body from view. His gaze frantically darted around before finally landing on his pile of clothing and supplies— on the opposite side of the room. Connor could have howled in frustration.

Still clutching desperately to the blankets, he edged toward the dresser where his belongings lay. “What are  _you_  doing here?”

Staring in bewilderment at the unclothed Assassin in front of him, Charles was struck speechless and it took him a moment to find his tongue.

“I could ask you the same question,” he snapped back, his mind fairly flooded with confusion.

What _was_ the Assassin doing there, _unclothed_ , in Haytham’s _bedroom_ of all places? Surely Haytham wasn’t aware of this, Charles thought, appalled by the situation.

He fervently hoped not. That would mean Haytham had forgiven his son, and welcomed him back with open arms. Possibly even that he had given up his own bedroom for him? It seemed preposterous, and yet the evidence was right there in front of him.

This couldn’t be happening, Charles thought furiously. How _dare_ the Assassin return after a half a year of Haytham being a miserable shell of his former self, and simply waltz back into the man’s life as if he’d never left?

Why did Haytham insist on doingthis to himself?

Charles would have to speak to him later. In the meantime however...

In one swift motion the Templar had pulled his pistol from its holster and levelled it at Connor’s head.

“Get out,” he snarled, face contorted in fury. “I’d rather not soil the Grand Master’s room with your filth.”

Freezing in his tracks, Connor’s eyes flicked between Charles’ face and the gun in his hand before glancing once more at his gear on top of the bureau. He didn’t think Lee would outright kill him for fear of invoking the Grand Master’s wrath, but Connor could not be entirely certain, and he wasn’t willing to take that chance. His dignity was not worth risking his life over.

He dropped the blanket, racing the last few steps to the dresser and grabbed one of his pistols. His lips peeled back in a feral snarl as he turned on the General. Despite his state of undress, the Assassin still made a formidable image.

Only his steadfast loyalty to Haytham stayed his trigger.

“I do not believe my father would appreciate you murdering an ally,” he spat, his tone taunting.

Despite knowing Connor was a fully-trained Assassin, Charles hadn’t quite been expecting him to move so fast. Before he could so much as curse, he found himself staring down the barrel of Connor’s own pistol.

He was an intimidating figure, but Charles refused to be cowed, a look of pure hatred overtaking his features. A swift death was too good for this filthy, murderous savage, he thought viciously.

Fortunately for him, Connor also seemed reluctant to pull the trigger unless necessary.

It seemed they were at an impasse, both men glaring daggers at each other but unwilling to test Haytham’s wrath. It couldn’t have been more than a minute that they spent glowering at each other, but the tension was palpable and the moment seemed to last hours.

At last they were interrupted by Haytham himself wrenching open his bedroom door and striding in, face thunderous.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, taking in the situation in furious disbelief. “Put your weapons up, both of you, I won’t have this nonsense in my house. And Connor...” his gaze fell upon his naked son, and only just managed to prevent his lips twitching in sudden amusement. “Put some clothes on. We will be downstairs. Come along, Charles.”

Before Charles could protest, the Grand Master had taken his upper arm in a firm grip and had drawn him back out of the master bedroom.

Eyebrows drawn together in a hateful glare, Connor waited until Lee had lowered his pistol before slowly, grudgingly, doing the same.

“Yes, father,” he ground out. Now that the immediate danger had passed, Connor could feel the tiny pinpricks of embarrassment returning, turning his cheekbones a faint, ashamed pink. He glanced at Haytham’s face, fighting back the urge to recoil from the disapproving stare he found there, and instead scowled. It was unfair, he thought with no small degree of petulance. He’d only been defending himself. It was  _Lee_  who was at fault, not him.

“I will meet you downstairs…” he grumbled lowly as the two made for the door, Charles not so much walking as being dragged by the Grand Master out of the room.

The mere  _idea_  of Haytham alone with the General, even for a moment, had Connor hastening to get dressed. Normally, he would not have bothered with any other weapons besides his hidden blades, but stomping down the stairs, the Assassin was outfitted in everything from his many belts and pouches to the bow and quiver on his back.

“Why is he here?” was the first thing to leave Connor’s mouth as he barged through the parlour doors.

Haytham had released his grip on Charles once the door had closed behind them, and they made their way back down the stairs in tense silence. Having walked down at a leisurely pace, they’d scarcely reached the parlour themselves before Connor burst in after them, fully dressed and armed to the teeth.

“Yes Charles, why _are_ you here?” Haytham asked calmly, settling into an armchair and waiting.

Charles stood stiffly, angry and frustrated that he couldn’t figure out what was going on in this household. Just what had caused the Grand Master and his son to be on such amiable terms?

“I came to check on you, sir,” he admitted at last. “It had been a while, and I was... concerned.” He stopped to give Connor a filthy look. “Little did I know how unnecessary my presence was to prove,” he snapped bitterly, annoyed and a little jealous.

“I do appreciate your consideration,” Haytham replied. “But you are right, it _was_ unnecessary. I am quite all right, as you can see.”

“Can I?” Charles asked unhappily, his dissatisfaction with the situation making him far bolder than usual. “Is it because of _him_?” here he pointed impolitely at the Assassin.

Haytham frowned, displeased with Charles’ rudeness towards his son. He knew they were never going to be friends, but that didn’t stop him from disliking such disrespect in his own parlour.

“Yes,” he said at last, knowing Charles would hate to hear it spoken aloud, but irritated enough that he didn’t particularly care. “Connor’s return was certainly a contributing factor.”

He gave Connor a brief smile, quick enough that Charles didn’t catch it.

Connor snorted derisively at his father’s words. However, when Haytham flashed him a short yet fond smile, there was no denying how his face heated nor the way his heart fluttered in response. It was humiliating, and somewhat frightening, how such a simple thing from the Templar could reduce his mind to mush.

Frowning, Connor turned his gaze on Lee once again.

“Does that bother you?” he asked with a sneer, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. It wasn’t in his nature to sniff out another’s emotional weaknesses, but Connor knew without a doubt just how untoward Lee’s feelings were for his Grand Master and, after all this time, he wanted his retribution for everything the General had ever said or done to him. More importantly, he also wanted to make certain Lee knew that Haytham belonged to  _him_ and not the other way around.

“Connor,” Haytham said in warning, though inwardly he was rather amused by his son’s venom. “Enough.”

He turned his attention back to Charles, who was almost trembling with barely-suppressed rage. “Perhaps it’s time you left, Charles,” he said nonchalantly. “Though please do stay in the city a while longer. There is a matter I would discuss with you, once I’ve finalised the details.”

As Charles was still his right-hand man, Haytham intended to broach the topic of an alliance between the Order and the Brotherhood with him, once he had a clearer idea of it himself. He knew Charles wouldn’t approve, but he hoped he could be convinced.

If not... well Haytham would think about that when it came to it. He did hope he wouldn’t be forced to do anything drastic, but he would do whatever he deemed necessary.

“Very well, sir,” Charles said stiffly, though his interest was piqued. “I will stay at Fort George for a time. I hope to see you there soon. I will see myself out,” he added, as Haytham made to stand. “Good day, sir.”

He left without another word, though did shoot Connor another glare on the way out.

Haytham sank back into his chair with a sigh. “Well,” he said, his earlier amusement resurfacing. “I suspect he won’t be forgetting _that_ encounter for some time to come.” His gaze shifted back to Connor. “I suppose I should thank you for not killing him on the spot,” he said warmly.

With Lee finally gone, Connor’s ire slowly started to drain away and he grunted in response to Haytham’s comment.

“It is his own fault,” he said mulishly and walked over to the parlour door, closing it. The man had walked in on him while sleeping then tried to shoot him— as embarrassing as the situation had been, it would bother Connor little if Lee was forever plagued by the image his nakedness made. It was the very _least_  he deserved as far as Connor was concerned.

“If you go and meet with him,” the Assassin began, hovering uncomfortably near the doorway, “I want to come.”

The last time they had broached the topic of Connor’s jealousy of Charles Lee and his distrust of his and Haytham’s time spent alone, their already-precarious relationship had ended in disaster. It was a dangerous risk he was taking by bringing up such a volatile subject, but Connor didn’t want to even so much as give Lee the  _opportunity_ to try and take what was his. “I do not trust him,” he mumbled, just as he had six months ago.

The parallel between this conversation and the one they’d had over six months ago wasn’t lost on Haytham. He wasn’t quite sure what Connor was so afraid of happening if he was absent from the meeting, but he would not make the same mistake twice.

“I-” he began, and then stopped. “Very well,” he agreed after a thoughtful pause. “I suppose if we are going to be proper allies, there needs to be a certain level of transparency. Convincing Charles will be no small task,” he continued. “If you _are_ to come you must give me a chance to persuade him. Understood?”

Connor’s mere presence at such a meeting would antagonise Charles enough without the Assassin being deliberately abrasive after all.

Connor slowly nodded his agreement, although it was clear from the expression on his face just what he thought of his father’s conditions. He supposed it wasn’t important, though. What truly mattered was that he would be allowed to attend Haytham’s meeting with the General and, coincidentally, put a stop to anything he might do or say in his absence. If it meant he could keep an eye on Lee, Connor would do his best to remain civil.

“Thank you.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um so just so you know, it's gotten to the point where our plotlines (if they can even be called that anymore) have become totally self-indulgent and possibly ridiculous.  
> So be warned, and hope you enjoy it anyway!

The meeting went… rather smoothly, much to Connor’s surprise. Lee had understandably been quite furious when not only did the Grand Master show up at the gates of Fort George, but Connor as well, and perhaps even more so when he learned of the two’s daring idea to unite their forces and end the decades-long war between the Assassins and Templars in the colonies. True to his word, Connor had remained silent while Haytham appealed to his long-time friend, and after a great deal of arguing, Lee finally acquiesced.

Several months passed and, bit by bit, their plans began to take shape. Many more meetings transpired since then. Some of them small, some large— all to discuss the future of the Order and Brotherhood. Oftentimes, it was merely he, Haytham and Lee gathered around a small table in the fort’s old study, but occasionally, their discussions required a much broader group. Men and women from each side convened to express their opinions and concerns, and apart from a few fights and the inevitable clashing of ideals, the level of cooperation was astounding. It was far more than Connor could have ever hoped for when he first proposed an alliance to Haytham over breakfast all those weeks ago. He had even succeeded in convincing Achilles to make the journey to New York to see first-hand what they had accomplished once.

Today, however, it would just be he and Haytham joining Lee at the fort. According to his father, Lee had sent a letter, explaining he had something urgent to tell them at once.

“Are you certain there were no details?” Connor asked again as they left Haytham’s manor late in the afternoon, not particularly enthused. “It seems odd.”

“It is a bit odd,” Haytham agreed. “But I’m sure it’s nothing so dramatic as he’s made it appear.” Though he’d been predictably reluctant at first, Charles had been surprisingly open to the idea of an alliance once he’d realised how serious Haytham was. It seemed strange he’d object to any of their terms now.

 

The more meetings between the Order and the Brotherhood that Charles attended, the more he became convinced that there was something odd going on between the Grand Master and his errant Assassin son. What, exactly, he couldn’t put his finger on, but he was certain it was _something_.

Running his mind back over what he had seen of their behaviour around each other, he just couldn’t fathom what could have happened to have made them suddenly be at such peace with each other.

It could have just been that they were dedicated enough to this alliance that they had put all former enmity behind them, but Charles wasn’t convinced that that was all there was to it.

The day he had invited himself over to Haytham’s manor had been what had planted the seed of unease, he supposed, remembering the encounter with a wince. He just wished he could understand what was going on-

A memory flashed through his mind of Haytham’s manservant warning him to knock before he entered the master bedroom. Did _he_ know something?

Perhaps he had been playing a trick on him, Charles thought, puzzled. Telling him to try the bedroom when he _knew_ the Assassin was in there.

Unless...

Unless he really did expect Haytham to be in there as _well_?

It still made little sense to the General, but he seemed to have found a lead at last.

Leaving his quarters at Fort George, he made his way over to Haytham’s manor once again, just in time to catch the servant leaving the building, perhaps on an errand.

Striding over, Charles caught him by the wrist. “May I have a word?” he asked, his expression telling the man it wasn’t really a question.

“Of course, sir,” Robert said, puzzled, letting himself be tugged into an inconspicuous alleyway.

“Now,” Charles said, releasing his grip and pinning the other man with his piercing blue gaze. “I have some questions about your master.”

“I-” Robert began, then caught himself, looking nervous. “I will try to answer, sir.”

“Very good. Have you noticed anything odd between Master Kenway and his son?”

The servant looked stricken, hastily averting his gaze. “N-no, sir?” he said guiltily.

Charles snorted in annoyance and withdrew his knife from within his coat. Within moments he had pinned Robert against the wall, his knife against his throat. “I require answers,” he hissed. “And I am not a patient man.”

The other man struggled, pupils dilated in fright. “I don’t know anything!” he insisted.

“You do, and you will tell me,” Charles growled, the edge of his knife digging into Robert’s skin. “Now.”

“All right, all right!” the servant relented at last, sweating with fear. “I have seen... things. Unnatural things that would make any decent godfearing man shudder in horror.”

And so he told him, haltingly at first, but soon the dam had broken and the words began to flow freely. He told Charles of that first morning he had found Connor in Haytham’s bed, how Haytham had told him immediately that Connor was his son, only for Robert to find them in the bedroom again later that very same day, committing indecent acts that he dared not speak of... but did anyway.

He had heard things, he told Charles, that no man should say to his son. Had seen the half-Native man on his knees before the master, his father’s hand in his hair... He’d seen Connor straddling the older man’s lap, riding him, both of them groaning... Had seen him being bent over a desk, crushed against a wall, had heard the muffled cries, the curses and whispered endearments.

“Sodomy is bad enough, but _incest_ ,” the servant finished, trailing off as he realised how still the General had grown.

Horror and disgust warred for dominance on the man’s face, coupled with disbelief and betrayal.

“Thank you for the information,” he said at last, and slashed his knife across the man’s throat, letting him crumple to the ground with a choked gasp.

He hurried back to Fort George to change clothes, and to reflect on the disturbing new information he’d learned.

As much as he hated to admit it, hated to believe anything so perverse of the man he’d looked up to for so long, it seemed so _obvious_ now. As he remembered how Haytham had fussed over Connor while he’d been injured in Boston, a snarl overtook Charles’ features and he slammed his fist down on his desk.

His black Pomeranian, Spado, whined in the corner, sensing his master’s unease.

Was Haytham really capable of such depravity, Charles wondered.

He supposed there was only one sure way of finding out.

Writing a letter to the Grand Master, he requested that Haytham visit him as soon as was convenient, claiming it was urgent and could not wait.

Haytham arrived late that afternoon, his son trailing behind him looking wary.

Charles could barely stand to look at the pair of them, knowing what they got up to behind closed doors.

Once they were settled into the room where they held their meetings, Charles stood and paced the room once, shoulders stiff with tension.

 “Is it true?” he demanded at last, staring at Haytham. “Is it true that you- that you and he...” he lapsed into silence again for a moment, not quite able to say the words. “You are sleeping together?” he asked finally.

Haytham could have laughed at the man’s obvious discomfort were the situation not so grave.

“Where did you hear that?” he asked evenly.

“Your servant,” Charles hissed icily. “He told me _everything_.”

 “You are lying,” Connor said at once, voice thunderous despite the fear slowly worming its way into his heart. He had to be lying, he just  _had_  to be. Haytham’s servant— Robert, Connor recalled— would never have spoken ill about his employer to anyone, least of all General Charles Lee. Connor had talked with the man himself one day while his father was out. It had not been long after ‘the incident’ in Haytham’s bedroom. Regardless of his personal (and perhaps moral) opinion on the matter of his master’s affairs, Robert had seemed genuinely pleased to be a member of the Grand Master’s staff and was well-paid for his work. There was no reason for him to have told Lee anything.

Unless…

“What did you do to him?” the Assassin suddenly asked, both livid, threatening and terrified all at once as he stared the General down from his seat next to Haytham at the table. Their secret had been revealed; they had been too careless, and now… Now Charles Lee had the leverage he needed to demand anything he wanted from them. Lee was fiercely loyal to Haytham, but was that loyalty enough that he would turn a blind eye to their incestuous relationship when there was a chance to have his revenge against the one individual who had single-handedly ruined The Colonial Rite? Connor didn’t think so.

No, Lee would try and milk the situation for every drop it was worth. Of that Connor was certain. Their alliance would be null and void, everything they had worked toward the last few months would be destroyed, he and the rest of his men would be forced to turn away or worse, and there was not one thing he could do to stop it. Were it to become public, Connor would do  _anything_  to save his father from suffering the fate their sordid relationship would no doubt result in. Even, Connor thought with despair, even if it meant losing him.

He would gladly give up everything they had together if it meant Haytham would remain safe.

Trying to ignore the way Lee’s pet Pomeranian was vying for his attention at the foot of his chair, Connor turned to look at Haytham, the desperation he felt clear in his eyes. He didn’t know what to do.

“I did what was necessary,” Charles snapped back. “Please keep your _whore_ silent,” he snarled as he turned back to Haytham.

Haytham’s eyes hardened. He had been holding on to the hope that he might yet talk his way out of this one but it seemed it was not to be. There was too much rage in Charles’ face, too much disgust.

“I suggest you speak carefully,” he said dangerously, eyes narrowing. “I understand you are upset but I will not tolerate such disrespect to me or my son.”

“Why should I?” Charles asked angrily. “You are the Grand Master; you were meant to be the best among us. I truly believed that you _were_. How could you do something like this?” he demanded suddenly. “Commit such an _abomination_. Out of all the people to take to your bed, why _him_.”

Charles would have given Haytham everything, had the other Templar only asked. Instead he had chosen that hated Assassin, the bane of all the Order had accomplished in the colonies, his _son_. It filled the General with indescribable fury.

Haytham had remained silent throughout Charles’ tirade. Seeing that he was waiting for an answer, he spoke at last. “I do not expect you to understand,” he said coldly.

Charles scoffed. “Oh I think I understand just perfectly,” he replied, a cruel edge entering his tone. “It’s because of his slut of a mother, isn’t it? You are nothing but her _replacement_ ,” he spat at Connor.

At the insult to his mother, he had been ready to lash out, however, the moment the General referred to him as nothing but her substitute, Connor immediately fell quiet. He felt like he'd been dealt a physical blow. "My mother-..." he tried, voice cracking despite his best efforts to remain calm and composed, "My mother was not-..."

He wanted to defend her, make Lee pay for besmirching his mother's name, her remembrance, so, but his mind was wrapped tight around that one, single word: 'replacement.' 

Connor's gaze dropped to his lap. Never before had he allowed the hateful bigotry and slander of others to affect him: it was something he had grown to ignore, to accept. He'd been referred to as a number of things throughout his life— savage being the most common— and yet 'whore' was somehow so much worse, striking quick and deep, piercing him like no dagger ever could.

Was he truly a replacement, just a whore willing to spread his legs like Haytham had said so many months ago? Kaniehtí:io's death had affected both of them, and it didn't take a keen eye to see the physical similarities between mother and son. He didn't want to believe it was true, but with Lee's words still echoing in his ears, it was difficult to see what else a man like his father could possibly want from his bastard of a son.

"You are lying," Connor repeated, although it lacked the conviction from before. 

Haytham felt rather than saw Connor stiffen in hurt and doubt next to him, and felt his own rage flare in response.

“Be silent, Charles,” he ordered sharply.

But Charles had already seen that he’d hit a sore point for the young Assassin, and had every intention of pressing his advantage.

“How you must be deluding yourself, if you truly believe he could ever care about you,” the Templar continued viciously. “You are _nothing_.”

Haytham had heard enough. Every muscle tense with barely-suppressed fury, he slowly rose to his feet and stared Charles down, eyes blazing. “I won’t listen to another word,” he snarled as he drew closer to the other man. “This is your last warning.”

“No,” Charles said, just as fiercely. “I’ve always deferred to your authority, _sir_ , but this I cannot accept. You and your pet Assassin are-”

But just what they were, he never got to say as Haytham’s fist met his face in a savage punch.

The General reeled back, holding his face in shock, but Haytham wasn’t finished. A second punch followed with a sickening crunch of bone as the other man’s nose was broken, blood spurting from the wound. The third blow knocked Charles to the floor. He attempted to rise again but Haytham held him down, and the abuse continued.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this outraged. The insults to himself were bad enough, but to speak like that to _Connor_ , to use his mother against him like that... It was beyond forgiveness. Charles had been a staunch ally over the years, true, but this would not be tolerated.

“What did you expect to achieve today, Charles?” the Grand Master snarled. “Did you intend to threaten me? To talk me out of my ‘madness?’” He paused, waiting for an answer. “Speak.”

Charles choked weakly, features covered in blood, but his eyes burned with new hatred. “Go to hell,” he spat.

Where once Connor would have felt vengeful satisfaction upon seeing his most hated enemy lying bloody and beaten on the floor, there was only a hollow emptiness. Lee was right. He was nothing, a brute, a beast, a  _savage_ , unworthy of a man like his father’s kindness or affection, just as he was the rest of society’s.

He had been a fool to believe Haytham wanted him for him and an even greater one for returning from Medford to find the Templar at all, for thinking he could salvage something that had seemingly never even existed. He should have stayed. According to many of the colonists, his kind belonged in the woods anyway.

Connor stood from his chair— Spado had long since fled the room— and watched with an impassive gaze as Haytham hit and shouted at his second-in-command. He thought to leave, to run away, away from New York, away from Haytham, away from  _everything_ , and he very nearly did. Yet something stayed him. Whether it was devotion to his cause or something else entirely, he didn't know. “Father,” he said quietly, emotionless. “It is not worth it.”

Haytham stilled at Connor’s voice, releasing Charles at last. “You will leave the colonies,” he ordered dangerously. “Go back to England or Europe, I don’t care. But if I see you again, I will kill you.”

With that, he left his former friend to deal with his injuries. He had to get out of there. Had to get _Connor_ out of there.

Connor...

His rage dissipated as he looked at his son, saw the peculiar blankness there. Charles’ barbs had struck him right to the core, it seemed.

They made their way back to Haytham’s manor in tense silence, neither of them willing to speak. It wasn’t until they were safe in the privacy of their bedroom that Haytham finally wrapped his arms around the Assassin and pulled him close.

“Don’t take any notice of his lies,” he murmured softly, tightening his hold. “You are worth more to me than you know.”

Haytham had never really learned how to comfort people, but even he could see that it was vital that he did his absolute best to console Connor if he didn’t want to lose him forever.

Charles’ awful words had made him doubt their relationship, doubt how much Haytham cared for him, doubt his own _value_.

Haytham knew it would take more than a hug and a few whispered assurances to fix things this time.

Pulling back slightly so he could meet Connor’s eyes, he hesitated, gathering his courage.

For Connor’s sake he reminded himself.

“Connor I-” he paused to swallow, mouth suddenly dry. “I love you.”


	29. Chapter 29

Connor offered no resistance as he was shepherded out of the Templar safe house by Haytham, leaving the disgraced General behind to lick his wounds in shame. Outside, business carried on as usual. Horse-drawn carts clattered past. Women perused the market stalls while their children played nearby. Drunkards lingered outside the taverns and Regulars patrolled the streets, their rifles carried at the ready. Connor was used to the whispers and stares that seemed to follow him wherever he went, but walking back to Haytham’s manor, it felt like  _everyone_  was staring at him, mocking him, shunning him.

The relief was palpable the moment they were alone in the Grand Master’s bedroom, hidden away from prying eyes and ears. Haytham immediately went to envelop him in his arms, and Connor couldn’t pretend he didn’t sink into his father’s embrace. Haytham was speaking, whispering gentle words in his ear and soothing him with promises and placations as he was so talented at.

Connor wasn’t listening, not truly, not until there came the three things he never thought he’d hear leave Haytham’s mouth.

_‘I love you.’_

Connor stiffened, stunned into silence.

He had not heard those words from anyone in over seventeen years. A word of thanks maybe or perhaps an ‘I’m proud of you’ from Achilles, but never-… never-…

Connor didn’t realise he’d begun to weep until a single tear dripped down his chin and onto the fabric of his shirt. With the dam broken, more soon followed until his shoulders were hitching with sobs and Connor yanked away from Haytham’s grasp, humiliated yet unable to stop.

Minutes went by, Connor gasping wetly as he tried to regain control over his emotions.

“He… is right,” the Assassin eventually stuttered, shaking his head and turning so that his back was facing his father, “Lee.

“I am nothing.”

Connor looked at the floor.

“I see the way women stare at you. You could have  _anyone_. You could marry and have legitimate heirs. Not… not a half-breed bastard like me. You do not need me, father. I am an embarrassment for a man of your standing. And yet… And yet you-…” His fists clenched at this sides, terrified of the answers he might receive. “Is it because… of... of her….? My… mother?”

Haytham watched in dismay as Connor pulled away from him, his face wet with tears. The feeling only increased as Connor spoke, an undercurrent of anger rolling through him beneath his sorrow. He shouldn’t have let Lee live. Not after he’d reduced the proud Assassin to this... this self-loathing.

It was hard for Haytham to watch, his son’s words tearing him apart. He knew he had to do _something_ , but what?

“You are _not_ nothing, Connor,” he began fiercely. “You’re an Assassin; a very good one. You’ve single-handedly undermined my own life’s work after all. More importantly, you’re my son. _My_ son. Speaking of yourself that way is just as much an insult to me as it is to you.”

He sighed. “I loved your mother,” he admitted. “After we separated, I didn’t believe I could ever love anyone the same way again. But you – you have changed my mind.

“It has nothing to do with her,” he continued firmly. “I love you for who _you_ are. It is true you remind me of her at times, but you are your own person. I knew that from the moment I met you.”

Cautiously, so as to not force the contact, Haytham reached out and took one of Connor’s hands in his own, pressing his lips to the back of it.

“I love you,” he repeated. “For your strength, and your determination, and yes, even your stubbornness. You are a better man than I, and I admire you greatly for it. So don’t let me hear you say such things about yourself again.”

Silence followed the Templar’s heartfelt speech, the room filled with nothing but the sound of Connor’s shuddering breaths.

Haytham was… proud of him. Despite their past, despite their numerous differences, Haytham believed he was someone to be valued— someone to be cherished and loved— someone worth fighting for. There were many who would disagree, but the longer Connor mulled over his father’s words, the less the Colonies’ bigoted opinions of him and his people seemed to matter and the more he was reminded of those who appreciated and respected him regardless of his heritage or the colour of his skin. The Brotherhood— Achilles, Stephane, Clipper, Dobby, Jacob, Duncan, Jamie— all the men and women on the Homestead… and now Haytham.

Connor kept his face downcast as Haytham approached him from behind, ashamed and unsure of what to expect, so it came as a surprise when one tightly-curled fist was gently lifted and a kiss pressed to its backside. Warmed by the gesture, instead of pulling his hand away, Connor relaxed and took his father’s in his own.

“Konnorónhkhwa, raké:ni,” Connor mumbled and rubbed at his eyes, “I love you.”  _I always have._

Reluctantly, he withdrew his grip before forcing himself to turn and face the older man. “I-“ he began but stopped short, still not quite able to look up from where his gaze was locked firmly on the floor. “Thank you. For… everything.”

Relief and a deep affection coursed through Haytham’s veins at Connor’s words, and in two swift strides he had crushed the Assassin against himself once more. In that moment all he wanted was to hold him, to have him safe and secure in his arms and know that he would be all right. It was intended for Connor’s benefit, but Haytham nonetheless felt it warm him to the core.

After a long moment, the Templar pulled back to look at his son, carefully brushing away any remaining tears with his thumb.

“I won't lose you again,” he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. 

“Look at me,” he ordered gently, cupping Connor’s jaw in one hand. Regarding him seriously for a moment, he smiled slightly, satisfied that the Assassin had calmed down significantly since they’d first arrived home.

Leaning in again, he kissed him once more, this time on the mouth. It was a soft kiss, not at all insistent but instead merely an offer for comfort should Connor want it.

It took some coaxing before Connor ultimately did as his father asked and looked up at him. His reward came in the form of Haytham’s mouth, brushing against his softly.

Their kiss was slow and languid. Haytham’s touch was soft and, ultimately, it was Connor who pressed for more, teasing open the elder Templar’s lips to slip his tongue between them. It was a dance they knew all too well, however neither of them were in any hurry, both content to simply bask in the each other’s warmth and affection. Dazed and drunk off gentle kisses, it was easy to let go of all the painful feelings Lee’s meeting had inspired, and a tiny smile curled at the corners of Connor’s lips once they parted.

“I love you,” he said once again, a bit more freely than before. It was… liberating— more than liberating, really—, finally being able to say out loud what his heart had been saying for months. Never in a million years did Connor expect that the feelings he kept hidden away would be reciprocated. It was overwhelming, exciting and frightening all at once. What was to happen now? Where would things go from here; and what of Lee? What would become of him? Would he defy Haytham’s orders and expose their depravity or would he continue to remain loyal to the Order? The future had never been so uncertain and yet Connor could not have been happier.

“I love you,” he repeated still another time. Now that he could, he wanted to tell Haytham as much and as often as possible. “You do not know how long I have hoped to hear you say that, father.” It was such a simple phrase: ‘I love you.’ Only three words— but to Connor, from this particular person, they meant the world. “You are… everything to me.”

Connor’s outpouring of emotion was utterly disarming. Haytham felt the remaining barriers that he had carefully crafted around his heart crack and shatter in the face of his son’s words.

This was it. There was no turning back from this moment.

Not that Haytham would have even if he could.

“’Everything?’” he repeated, a little awestruck despite himself. It seemed he had underestimated the depth of Connor’s devotion. But then, he supposed if he really thought about it, he felt the same way.

For years, the most important thing in his life had been his Templar duties and responsibilities. They were what kept him going, what drove him to keep living. But things had changed. He was still dedicated to the Order, but it was Connor who dominated his thoughts and dreams. Connor was his first thought when he woke up, and his last as he went to sleep. He would die for him.

It was a terrifying realisation for the Templar, but the knowledge that Connor felt the same did much to soothe the sudden fear that threatened to overwhelm him. He hadn’t felt this way before. He hadn’t thought he knew how. But once again, Connor had proven him wrong.

“I...” he began haltingly. “I hope to be worthy of your affection.”

He didn’t think of himself as a good man. But for his son’s sake, he would aim to be better.

Connor’s breath hitched on a short laugh that ended in a cough, throat catching from his earlier tears. Be it just like his father to still believe himself unworthy of his love. It was true they had been enemies— even now, with a budding alliance between them, they remained staunch rivals in both belief and action— and there were things Haytham had done in the brief time Connor had known him that were truly reprehensible.

However, Haytham had shown him a loyalty the Assassin had never before seen, not even among his own men. As far as Connor was concerned, his and Haytham’s past lay in just that: the past. He didn’t want to dwell on what had occurred between them six months ago. Of course, what happened had been horrible and the marks left on his mind were impossible to erase, but there was no point in letting old wounds fester. The Haytham from before, the one that had taken him hostage and then abused his greatest fears and deepest emotions, was not the Haytham standing in front of him now. _This_  man was trustworthy, unwavering in his love and devotion and could be deeply compassionate when he allowed himself to be. He was everything Connor could have wanted and more. How he could sit there and say he  _‘hoped to be worthy’_ was beyond him.

“You already are,” Connor said without a hint of doubt or hesitance and pulled Haytham into a tight embrace. “It is  _I_  who should be saying such things, not you."


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for missing a week without warning, we've been a bit disorganised lately.  
> We've also just about caught up to where we're up to writing, so I think we've got one more finished chapter after this one, and then we'll probably have to slow down our updates to give ourselves more time to write.  
> Sorry for the delays, and a huge thank you to all of you who have stuck with us so far, your support means a lot to us <3

The days that followed were marked by a new sense of peace and closeness the likes of which neither man had experienced for many years.

Charles Lee had packed his things and fled the country, and it was with a certain degree of relief that they put him from their minds. Even if he did try to ruin them with allegations of their illicit relationship, it was unlikely anyone would believe him. Besides, with Lee back in Europe, he was too far removed to cause them any significant trouble.

The truce between the Brotherhood and the Order was working remarkably well. The initial terms of the agreement had been simple. To begin with, it was sufficient that the Assassins and Templars left each other alone. That meant no deliberate instigations of conflict, and no attacking on sight. It was still not exactly an alliance, but peaceful coexistence was a start, and certainly more than had ever been achieved between the two sides since Haytham had first arrived to take up his post as Grand Master in the colonies.

They knew better than to expect any progress to be made with any kind of swiftness, given the history of hatred and bloodshed between the two, but the hope was that with Haytham and Connor at the head of each respective side, they would be able to pool their influence and resources and begin to have a real impact in the colonies, where their goals were aligned of course.

Back at Haytham’s manor, the house staff were still all aflutter over the death of the servant Robert. He had been a good worker, and Haytham did miss his competence, though he had to admit the man’s knowledge of his relationship with Connor had been concerning. They certainly meant to be far more discreet from now on; the confrontation with Lee was more than enough condemnation for one lifetime and not a situation they would wish to repeat.

It was a Sunday morning in the Kenway manor.

Outside in the streets, the air was damp and muggy and the skies overcast with an impending rain shower— a typical spring day in the bustling colonial city of New York.

Except this particular Sunday was not all it appeared.

Twenty-three years ago, on this day, a baby boy was born to Kaniehtí:io in the small village of Kanatahséton. She named him Ratonhnhaké:ton.

It was story he had been told many times throughout his life, by his mother and then by the Clan Mother, yet one he had never shared outside his tribe. Not even with his father.

It mattered little. To Connor it did, at any rate. After all, he did not know Haytham’s date of birth, only that he was in his early to mid-fifties, and his father had never taken it upon himself to inform him anything else and neither had Connor asked. Although he  _was_  curious just how old Haytham was, it simply wasn’t that important a topic to the Assassin. The entire concept of ‘birthdays’ seemed unimportant. A bit strange, too, if Connor truly thought about it.

An individual’s birth was not celebrated each consecutive year among his people like it was amongst the Colonists, but instead important milestones in that person’s life, like a coming of age or a marriage. Connor had achieved nothing but reach the age of twenty-three; hardly an accomplishment as far as he was concerned. So, it was with due reason that he neither told Haytham nor expected anything from him or anyone else for that matter.

“Are you happy to be getting away from New York?” Connor asked, bent over Haytham’s desk in his study, quill in hand and a letter to Achilles spread out before him. They were set to depart for the Homestead in four weeks, and Connor wished to tell his Mentor when he could expect them to arrive.

Dipping the quill in a pot of ink, he hastily scratched out a misspelled word on the parchment, brows wrinkling in frustration. He had never been one for writing. Compared to Haytham’s flowing script, his own was disorganised and messy, rife with edits and mistakes. Recently, he’d begun to ask Haytham for help, though it gnawed at his pride to do so.

“I cannot say I will miss it here much.”

“Indeed,” Haytham agreed from over the cover of his book. “I’m curious to see for myself this Homestead of which you speak so fondly.” And to come face-to-face with Achilles again he thought, but didn’t say. Though the old Assassin had not stood in their way when he’d attended one of their peace talks, and had been openly relieved to see Connor alive and well, he’d barely spared a glance at Haytham, much to the Templar’s amusement.

 

Connor had made no mention of it being his birthday, and Haytham wouldn’t have had the slightest inkling that it was had he not happened to be sorting some of his old journals some time ago and thought to look up some dates. Judging by the dates of the entries in which he’d spent time with Ziio, it seemed likely Connor would have been born sometime around April.

Haytham had kept the date in his mind ever since, and now at last April had arrived. He wondered what to do about it. A gift seemed in order, but what did one give a boy like Connor? Well he wasn’t really a boy any more he supposed. Twenty-three was a man full-grown after all.

It wasn’t until he’d begun replacing his own old equipment that the thought came to him. Connor had never recovered his prized tomahawk after his imprisonment in the Boston Gaol. Given some investigation, Haytham wondered if he couldn’t find it himself.

It had taken some time, but with some assistance from his network of agents, he was able to discover it for sale at a general store in Lexington. He’d arranged for it for to be bought and brought back to New York as soon as possible. It was a relief to see it again, even for Haytham, and he’d traced the metal head with careful fingers before wrapping it up again.

He decided to wait until lunch was over and present it Connor then.

It was a challenge for Haytham to sit still through the midday meal, and to eat at a sedate pace worthy of his gentility. He was eager to see Connor’s face when he had his beloved tomahawk in his hands again. Unable to resist, he’d added a beautiful pair of pistols to the gift as well, having been thoroughly unimpressed with the ones Connor had brought back from Medford, and had also included pouches to replace many of his supplies and ammunition.

 At last lunch was finished and Haytham was able to rise from his seat and look at Connor expectantly.

“I have something for you,” he said, and led him into the manor’s modest library where he’d stored the wrapped box on a shelf, knowing it was a room Connor seldom frequented.

Taking the box down, he handed it to Connor. “Admittedly I’m not certain of the precise date,” he said, brow furrowing slightly – he’d have liked to have known the exact day of his son’s birth, but simply asking him would’ve spoiled the surprise. “Nevertheless, happy birthday, Connor.”

Connor had known something was amiss. From the moment they’d left the manor’s study for the dining room, Haytham began to act most strangely. To Connor’s eyes, he appeared restless, fidgety, even  _anxious_ , things the Assassin had never thought possible of the reserved and dignified man he called father.

What was going on?

His question was answered later after lunch, instead of returning to Haytham’s office, he was pulled aside and into the library. In truth, he had expected the ‘something’ Haytham spoke of to be sex. It wasn’t _completely_  uncommon for them to hole up in a locked room for a quick round of debauchery that often left Connor limping for the rest of the day. So it came as a surprise when in lieu of yanking him in for a heated kiss, Haytham walked over to a bookshelf. Brows scrunched together in confusion, Connor watched as the Grand Master went to fetch a box from one of the uppermost levels. “What-…?” he started to ask but stopped short once Haytham began to speak.

“My birthday?” Connor repeated, taking the box, expression utterly confused. He was aware it was customary among the colonists to give gifts to friends and family on their day of birth, but how could Haytham have possibly known that today was his? He’d told no one. “It is today... But, I-… thank you,” he eventually said, not about to turn away such a thoughtful gesture regardless of the bizarreness of it.

Setting down the box on a nearby table, Connor hesitantly took off the lid. Inside lay two of the most exquisite pistols he had ever seen and with them…

“My tomahawk.” Stunned, he reached in to almost reverently pick it up. It was his tomahawk—  _his_  tomahawk. Every nick, dent and scratch was exactly as he remembered.

For the first time in years, Connor’s lips split in a real smile, glancing up at Haytham before back down at the weapon in his hands. He could hardly believe it. He’d had no hope of ever seeing his tomahawk in one piece again. Yet here it was, and Haytham had found it; for  _him_.

He set the weapon down, nearly stumbling over his own feet as he rushed to tug Haytham into a tight hug. “ _How?_  How did you find out?”

Haytham barely had time to brace himself before Connor all but barrelled into him for a hug, knocking the air from his lungs in the process.

“I have my ways,” he replied vaguely. He hesitated slightly, then began to hug Connor back, pleased to see him so happy. He’d never seen him smile like that before. It was... nice. Different.

And what a stroke of luck that his birthday was _today_! The fourth of April... Haytham tucked the date into a corner of his mind, determined to never forget it.

“I’m glad you’re pleased,” he murmured warmly, his grip tightening for a moment. “I know how you’ve missed it.”

Connor smiled into the fabric of the Grand Master’s overcoat and hugged him even tighter. Eventually, he reluctantly let go, arms dropping to his sides, and backed away— but not before leaning in to kiss Haytham on the cheek. “I have,” he replied, lip quirked at one corner, “but not nearly as much as I have missed you.”

His expression was sheepish as it darted between his father and the door behind them. They had a meeting with several high-ranking Templar officials soon, but…

Connor stepped around Haytham and over to where the door was left ajar. He shut it with a quiet ‘click.’ Fishing around in the pockets of his trousers, he procured a brass key Haytham had presented him with nearly a week earlier and turned it in the lock.

The Templars could wait.

Once the key was safely in his breeches, he returned to where Haytham stood, watching him with a speculative gaze Connor was more than familiar with, and took him by the hand. He coaxed him over to a plush chair next to a row of bookshelves and pushed him down into the seat, smirking all the while. He believed a proper ‘thank you’ was in order. Although, whether or not it could be considered more of a treat for himself than Haytham was a fact that could be argued.

He knelt between Haytham’s knees, nuzzling at the seam of his slacks, glancing up at the older man above him as though asking for permission.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, everyone!
> 
> Enjoy ;)

Haytham watched bemusedly as Connor moved to lock the door, already having some idea of what the Assassin was planning. His suspicions were confirmed as he was guided over to a chair and bade to sit down.

As Connor sank down onto his knees between his legs, Haytham’s mouth abruptly went dry. “Connor,” he said slowly, “you don’t have to-” he broke off as he watched his son lean in even closer.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he tried again, even as he felt his traitorous cock stir in interest. It was difficult to resist when Connor was being insistent like this however, and it wasn’t long before Haytham couldn’t remember why he had any reason to refuse his attentions in the first place.

“Very well,” he said at last, “seeing as you’re so eager.” His tone was not unkind however.

Connor gave a tiny smirk in response before going back to nose Haytham through the fabric of his breeches. It pleased him more than he was willing to admit, knowing his father couldn’t resist his advances. At an earlier stage in their admittedly unhealthy relationship, it might have been something the Assassin would have considered exploiting for the good of the Brotherhood, but now…

Now, he simply enjoyed it.

Perhaps it was something to be ashamed of, however Connor found he cared very little. He relished this act, revelled in it. Tasting and seeing and feeling as Haytham came apart under his touch alone—it was amazing. Intoxicating.

“I am not doing this for you,” Connor half-lied and dragged his mouth along the placket of Haytham’s trousers. He withdrew lazily, wetting his lips as he reached up to palm the growing bulge between the Templar’s legs. Finally, he indulged his own impatience and began to unbutton his father’s britches, drawing the cock and balls beneath out into the open.

Circling the base of the shaft in one hand while gently cupping his testicles in the other, Connor licked a long line up the underside to the crown. He swiped his tongue across the head, pausing to dip just beneath the foreskin, before enveloping it with a practised ease, looking entirely too smug as he sucked leisurely.

“Oh?” Haytham asked, inhaling sharply as he felt the first touch of Connor’s mouth through his clothing. “How very selfish of you."

A smirk of his own began to spread across his face, the slightest hint of malice lurking behind his gaze. “I have often wondered at how much you seem to enjoy this; more than is decent really.

 “Look at you,” he continued slowly, already breathless from the first lap of Connor’s tongue. “How you must hunger for it.”

All previous thoughts of why he should not indulge this little depravity utterly fled his mind, his attention narrowing until he was focused on Connor and himself and nothing else.

 He dropped his hand to stroke Connor’s cheek briefly before lifting it again to let his fingers thread through his hair, silently marvelling at the exotic style. He let his hand rest there, fingers tightening every so often whenever the Assassin gave him an especially vigorous lick.

“My perfectly vulgar son,” he chuckled. “You look far too pleased with yourself.” His hold tightened in warning. “I wonder if you’ll look half as smug when you’re choking on my cock. Let’s find out, hmm?”

Giving Connor less than a split-second to prepare himself, Haytham held him still by the grip on his hair and let his hips thrust forward, his length sliding deeper into his mouth until he hit the back of his throat.

So he claimed to be doing this for himself did he? Haytham would see if he felt the same when his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were watering from air deprivation.

Pulling back out again before thrusting back in, Haytham began slowly, not wanting to actually _choke_ Connor, and giving him time to adjust to the rhythm. He soon increased his pace however, continuing to hold his son in place as he thoroughly used his mouth for his own pleasure.

When the grip on his hair turned fierce, Connor scarcely had the chance to take a breath before Haytham suddenly and unexpectedly thrust deep.

He gagged; it couldn’t be helped. Yet there was no relief. With Haytham’s hand holding him rigidly in place, Connor was forced to accommodate the intrusion. He tried to relax, drool pooling at the corners of his mouth, lips spread wide around the thick cock lodge between them, but the lack of control made what was typically an easy feat for the Assassin incredibly difficult. In the end, Haytham gave him little choice, and drawing in short, ragged breaths whenever he could, Connor let his mouth be used until he could gather his bearings from where they’d been so ruthlessly yanked out from under him.

If Haytham wanted to play dirty, then so would he. His father believed himself to be in control. Connor would show him just how wrong he really was.

Bracing a hand on one of his father’s hips, Connor groaned low his throat, reaching up to where he’d let go of Haytham’s balls to cup them once again, squeezing carefully but firmly. He was well aware of the saliva dripping uncontrollably down his chin and the tears that leaked from his eyes as Haytham took his pleasure, but Connor had long since abandoned any sense of decency, and it was more than apparent as he lapped and sucked at what he could of the shaft plunging into and out of his mouth. Brows drawn together in concentration, he opened his throat wider and grunted in approval when Haytham plunged even further, savouring the burn.

Haytham was thoroughly enjoying himself now. Connor took his cock beautifully, struggling to keep up and breathe at the same time, his face wet with tears at the exertion.

The whole thing was unabashedly filthy and Haytham revelled in it, revelled that Connor would let him do this to him and enjoy it at the same time – if his sounds of pleasure and obvious erection were any indication.

Rather absorbed, he barely noticed the movement of Connor’s hands until he felt clever fingers reach up to touch and massage his balls where they hung heavy with arousal. Groaning in surprised pleasure, Haytham thrust forward almost involuntarily, harder and deeper than he had previously, and through his haze of lust he couldn’t help being genuinely impressed when Connor simply took it without a single sign of distress.

“You truly are relishing this aren’t you?” Haytham said breathlessly in some wonder. “I wish - ” he broke off with a gasp as he felt Connor give him an especially well-placed brush of tongue. “I wish I’d known about this about you sooner.”

He’d known Connor had somewhat of a fixation for pleasuring him in this way, but he had never quite realised to what _extent._

If not for the cock stretching his lips, he would have grinned in response to Haytham’s rather backhanded compliment. As it were, Connor settled for moan that sounded about as completely wrecked as he felt.

It was perfect. It was utopia. Connor wished he could remain there forever, on his knees between Haytham’s legs, devouring his father’s prick as though it was what he was born to do.

Yet, like many aspects in life, all good things must come to an end. Connor could honestly say that, even as his eyes dripped with tears and his lungs strained for air, Haytham’s tells were as obvious to him as night and day. As often as he found himself in the Grand Master’s bed, he had committed them all to memory long ago.

Still maintaining his steady grip on his hip, Connor glanced up at Haytham through the wetness that clouded his vision with what could only be described as a goading look, already readying himself for the inevitable throb and rush of hot liquid down his throat.

Connor was exquisite like this, Haytham thought, all wanton and shameless, glancing up at him from beneath lowered lashes as though daring him to come.

The boy knew him too well, Haytham thought with amusement; he was indeed close.

However a thought had occurred to him earlier - an obscene and intriguing idea that he couldn’t seem to shake. There was yet one more element missing from the near-perfect portrait of debauchery Connor made and he intended to remedy that.

Using his grip on Connor’s hair for leverage, Haytham roughly pulled himself free of Connor’s mouth just as he felt his peak approaching. The force of his orgasm hit him hard, releasing thick ropes of his seed that painted his son’s face and hair with streaks of pearl-white.

Breathing hard, Haytham looked down at the Assassin where he sat crouched.

Soiled. Defiled. Violated.

He felt a self-satisfied smile pull at his mouth.

“Magnificent,” he murmured.

 Connor barely had the time to register that Haytham was purposely pulling away before the first jet of semen hit his cheek. He jerked in surprise but quickly recovered, clenching his eyes shut and gasping for breath as his skin was thoroughly coated in viscous strands of come. He hadn’t realised how close he himself had become until orgasm ripped through him so suddenly, it drew a choked curse from his lips. Shuddering, Connor could only grasp in desperation at Haytham’s legs as his cock throbbed and pulsed inside the confines of his underdrawers, completely untouched.

It seemed an eternity later that the spasms finally ceased and Connor was left slumped and panting between Haytham’s thighs. Flushed and utterly used, shame and arousal swept over him in intense waves at how filthy he must look, kneeling there on the floor, his father’s essence dripping from his face and hair, the front of his trousers beginning to darken with his own release, but Spirits above had it been worth it. Connor would possibly even go so far as to say it had almost been better than his ‘real’ present.

He cracked open an eye, lashes sticky with Haytham’s seed, and wiped at his mouth and chin with a shaky hand. He licked his lips.

“You are welcome,” he said teasingly, voice hoarse.

“I thought you weren’t doing this for me,” Haytham replied wryly, voice still rough from his orgasm. “Regardless I won’t pretend a single second of it wasn’t to my liking.”

He let his gaze linger on the despoiled figure on Connor a few moments longer, committing the image to memory, before saying, “You’d best get yourself cleaned up before we meet our guests.”

He glanced at the clock; they had just enough time if they moved quickly.

Fortunately for Haytham all he had to do was tuck himself back into his trousers and straighten his clothing again; Connor of course was another matter.

He bet down to kiss him once; little more than a brief but firm press of lips, before helping to pull him to his feet.

“Go,” he murmured. “I will wait for you.” He smiled and indicated Connor’s _actual_ present. “As will your effects.”

Connor couldn’t help but smile in return, pausing briefly as though there was something he wanted to say but instead nodded. He turned and walked to the door, albeit a little awkwardly thanks to the mess in his trousers. There was a wash basin in his father’s room with a jug of clean water that was replaced each morning. He could clean himself up there. It would be a challenge, but Connor was relatively certain he could make it to Haytham’s quarters without being seen by any of the staff. “I will meet you in the foyer,” Connor responded then slipped out into the hall.

Just as he’d guessed, the Assassin encountered no one on his way to Haytham’s, or rather their, room. He scrubbed his face and hair clean— well, as clean as they were going to get with just his hands and a bowl of water anyway— and changed out of his pants and britches. Grabbing his coat from a nearby chair, Connor stashed away his dirty clothing before leaving to join Haytham downstairs. He found his father by the front door, looking prim and proper as always. One would have never guessed he’d had his cock down his son’s throat not ten minutes before.

“Ready,” he said, shrugging on his jacket, a touch out of breath.

He took his tomahawk and new pistols from Haytham gratefully and slipped them into their respective holsters. It was wonderful to finally be rid of the small hunting axe he’d purchased in Medford. He didn’t believe he’d ever find a way to truly repay Haytham for what he had done. In some respect, Connor was still in shock by his selflessness. If anyone had told him a year earlier that his _father_  of all people would take the time and effort— not to mention money— to find something important to him, the Assassin would have thought them crazy. The same could be said for his unexpected declaration of his love.

It all felt like a dream. At times, Connor expected to wake up back in his tent in the woods at any moment.

Yet Haytham continued to surprise him more and more each day.

“Why did we agree to this meeting today?”


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that Shay has been added to the character tags!  
> To anyone concerned about Shay's inclusion in this story, if you're not a Shay fan, don't worry he's really just making a brief cameo and won't be here for long.  
> For people who _do_ like Shay, I promise he's not here to create drama (Haytham and Connor do enough of that all by themselves!) so just enjoy him while you can ;)

Haytham sighed in mild exasperation, still irritated at being summoned so imperiously. “From what I could gather from their letter, it seems we are being paid a visit from a couple of Templars from Europe who wish to investigate the alliance we’re attempting to form. Glorified spies,” he continued, disgruntled. “It’s just like the continental Templars to try and stick their noses in the workings of the colonies.”

Fetching his tricorn hat, he led Connor out of the house to where their horses were kept. The stable master had their horses saddled and bridled in quick order, and soon they were riding their horses across the city to a house they’d established as a sort of neutral meeting place for the Order and the Brotherhood. Haytham wasn’t sure who to expect, though he presumed the Templars would be English. He didn’t see why any other Rite would take any interest in his activities.

Mostly he hoped they weren’t French.

As they were let into the building and led into the main meeting room, he was caught completely off-guard to find himself face-to-face with a man he hadn’t seen for a great many years.

“ _Shay_ ,” he said hoarsely, pale with surprise.

The other Templar looked much the same as he remembered him, other than the new shock of grey hair that wove through the remaining black and added to his already wolf-like appearance.

“Master Kenway,” Shay greeted him with much of his old warmth, standing to shake his hand.

Recovering quickly, Haytham returned his firm grip before indicating Connor.

“This is Connor,” he introduced him. “My son. Connor, this is Shay Cormac, a Templar whom I worked with in the early days of coming to the colonies.”

“How do you do, Connor?” Shay asked, offering his hand to shake.

It must have been obvious that Connor was an Assassin in his distinctive robes, Haytham thought, but Shay said nothing about it.

He hadn’t been particularly enthused about meeting yet  _another_  group of imperious old men from the Templar Rite, however Connor’s mood soured even further once he realised one of said ‘imperious old men’ was neither old nor imperious but actually  _attractive_. Moreover, he appeared to be someone Haytham was well acquainted, and perhaps even  _friends,_  with. The observation on served to set him more on edge.

Shay Cormac, Haytham had said. Why did that name sound so familiar?

Connor recalled his time at Fort George. During his scouring of Haytham’s room, he’d come across a stack of both new and old letters, some dated long before he’d been born. Three had been from a woman, Jennifer Scott, two more from an individual signed ‘Holden’— neither of which had yielded any useful information. The remaining few had been from a S. Cormac.

Connor looked at the man’s outstretched hand then back up to his face.

 _This_  was who his father had been corresponding with all these years?

Connor reigned in the surge of possessiveness that began to rise. This was not a competition. It was a gathering to discuss the future between the Assassin Brotherhood and Templar Order. Haytham belonged to him, not this... admittedly handsome... Templar. There was nothing to worry about. Right?

Noticing he had been staring for far too long, Connor begrudgingly returned Shay’s handshake. For the sake of their alliance, he had to try and remain at least somewhat amiable. There would be plenty of time to find out about this 'Shay' from Haytham later.

"I take it you have questions," he said tersely. The sooner this meeting was over, the better.

“I do indeed,” Shay said cheerfully, apparently unconcerned by Connor’s hesitating over the handshake. “ _Officially_ I’ve been sent here by the English Rite – the Grand Master’s not too happy with you, by the way,” he informed Haytham. “Something about sending a certain General Lee back to Europe without consulting him first.”

Haytham looked annoyed. “I don’t see how that’s any of his concern,” he said loftily. “I have the right to choose whom I work with.”

Shay shrugged. “It’s none of my business. Never liked the bastard anyway,” he added confidentially. “Anyway I agreed to come here to sate my own curiosity. Haytham Kenway, allying with the Assassin Brotherhood after all these years?” He grinned. “This I had to see.”

He turned back to Connor. “And to meet you of course,” he said. “I’ve been very curious to see the man who’s singlehandedly crippled the Colonial Rite. An impressive thing, that.”

Haytham looked between the two men with some bemusement. One his son and lover, the other a man he had slept with more than once in the past, whom he could have even loved had the circumstances been different. It was quite a peculiar situation. He rather hoped each man didn’t find out about the other’s involvement with him; it couldn’t possibly end well.

Connor’s stare was impassive as he withdrew his hand the first moment he could. Or, at least, he hoped it was. There weren’t many things that could catch Connor unprepared, but this… this was one of them.

Suddenly, he found himself wishing for those ‘imperious old men’ he’d been dreading instead. Anything other than the smiling, lively Irishman in front of him. Connor wasn’t certain what he wanted more, to punch the amused grin off his face or kiss it off. The Assassin stiffened, completely horrified by what he’d just thought. One minute, he was suspicious of the man’s friendship with Haytham; the next, he wanted to find out if his lips were as soft as they looked. Connor tore his gaze away from where they had been resting on Shay’s mouth. What was  _wrong_  with him?

Guilt welled up inside him like an overflowing stream and his temper flared, an inherent response to stress that he couldn’t control. “There— you have met him. Satisfied?” was Connor’s biting response and he turned to march toward the large table in the middle of the room, fearful and nervous and utterly confused behind his grumpy veneer. “Where are the others?”

Shay raised an eyebrow at Haytham. “Charming lad,” he joked, “I see he takes after you.

“There are no others,” he then said to Connor whose frown deepened even as he took to watching Shay out of the corner of his eye once more. “I suppose they figured I could handle this on my own.” He faced Haytham with a curious expression. “So, Master Kenway... Why the sudden change of heart?” From their previous correspondences, Shay had been fairly sure Haytham was intending to do away with his estranged son long ago. Now, to find out not only had he let the boy live but  _allied_  with him and the Assassins as well? It was baffling.

 “It was not a decision made lightly,” Haytham answered. “Having worked together with Connor in the past, such an alliance did seem possible, if not probable. There has always been bad blood between the Order and the Brotherhood, but defeating and eradicating each other has never been the foremost goal of either group, though you wouldn’t know it from the last few centuries of behaviour.

“Both orders were created for greater aims, and I believe that with some form of peace brokered between the two, we may at last focus our gaze back on our original purpose, and end this mindless slaughter of one another.”

He smiled slightly. “As you can see for yourself, Connor and I haven’t killed each other yet.”

“ _Yet,_ ” Shay quipped, but while he looked wary, his face didn’t wear the closed-off expression that many of the other Templars – and Assassins – had sported when the plan had first been proposed to them.

Haytham chuckled, relaxing at last in the familiarity of Shay’s presence. “The alliance had to start somewhere,” he explained. “It may as well have been with us. We have put all former enmity behind us in pursuit of our new agenda.”

Shay eyed the Grand Master shrewdly. “So it wasn’t a sudden surge of fatherly affection then,” he teased, not quite able to resist a confidential wink at Connor.

Haytham scoffed, because he was expected to. “Hardly.”

Connor seemed especially hostile towards Shay, he noted curiously. He hadn’t exactly been overtly friendly with any of the Templars he’d met so far, but he’d never been quite this brusque either. Haytham wondered what the problem was. He’d have to ask him later.

Shay’s wink earned him a nasty scowl from Connor, but the man merely appeared amused by his response, which, in turn, only served to aggravate the Assassin even further.

What game was this Templar playing at?

Crossing his arms, Connor tried to concentrate on the topic at hand, a task more easily said than done. It was difficult to focus on the state of the Assassin-Templar conflict when one of his father’s old friends was in the room. If the letters he had found back at Fort George were anything to go by, the two had been very close. Just  _how_  close still remained to be seen.

Jealousy burned bright within him at the thought, followed immediately by a torrential rush of guilt. He was being hypocritical. Not moments ago he’d been fantasising about the very person he was wary of. What may or may not have happened between Shay and Haytham was in the past. Their relationship was strictly platonic. It was-

“This is all a bit too formal for me. What say you to continuing this conversation over a pint?”

“No,” was the near-instantaneous reply. Shay’s grin faltered for the briefest of seconds before it was back full force. He smiled warmly at the brooding Assassin.

“Come now, Connor. It’s on me.”

Connor was fully aware he was being less than hospitable to his newest ally, but that no longer seemed to be a priority. He wanted Shay Cormac, and all the uncomfortable feelings he induced,  _gone_.

“I do not drink,” he grumbled. Or rather, he  _could not_  drink. The fact he wasn’t able to hold his liquor, however, was not one he wanted to share with either man. “We will finish this here.”

Haytham felt a slight flicker of irritation at Connor’s stark refusal. The only reason he could think of for his son’s behaviour was simply that Shay was a Templar. If that _was_ the case, then Connor was being uncommonly childish. The whole point of this alliance was to put such hostility behind them; surely Connor could see that?

Besides, if anyone could show Connor that not all Templars were bad (other than himself of course) it would be Shay. Shay was one of the best people Haytham had ever met, with a pure heart and strong moral core.

He was quite like Connor in many ways, now that Haytham thought about it. There was no reason why they couldn’t get along, and it would be beneficial for them to get to know each other better.

“You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to,” he said reasonably. “But there’s no reason we can’t relocate our discussion. It _is_ rather stuffy in here.”

He turned back to Shay. “Where were you thinking of?”

“Excellent,” Shay exclaimed before telling Haytham about a promising-looking tavern he had passed earlier that day.  Connor was absolutely livid, and it showed on his face as he marched out of the room. Shay’s eyes followed him out. “Is he normally like this?”

\---

Three hours later found the Assassin staring into the empty bottom of his fourth mug of ale. Or was it the fifth? At this point, Connor couldn’t be entirely certain.

He hadn’t intended to drink, but after the first forty-five minutes of listening to Haytham and Shay discuss the goings-on of the Templar Order, he ordered a tankard from the keeper. True to his word, Shay had insisted on paying for it as well as the next three. The man was so friendly; Connor didn’t understand it, especially after how uncivil he’d been upon first meeting. Most people would have already given up on amity and left him to his own devices.

Not Shay, however. He still hadn’t admitted defeat, something that baffled Connor to no end. Every moment was spent smiling, trying to include him in their conversations, asking him questions about the Brotherhood, the Homestead, his friends, his people... At one point, he had even seated himself right next to him at the table. Connor merely tolerated it all in the beginning, but Shay’s personality was infectious, and although he inwardly maintained that it was  _‘just the ale,’_  he realised he was starting to enjoy his company.

“I need some air,” Connor stated after recounting their confrontation with the merchant in Boston and pushed his chair back. He stumbled to his feet, or instead, attempted to. Suddenly dizzy, he would have toppled over where he stood were it not for a certain Irishman holding him upright. Shay, laughing, supported him and helped him regain his balance. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have bought you that last one.”

Faces centimetres apart, Connor could only swallow thickly, eyes wide and frozen in place. The urge to kiss him returned, and he flushed bright red.

Seconds ticked by. “You all right?” Shay asked. Connor nodded dumbly, releasing him as if he'd been burned, and took a wavering step backward. He glanced at Haytham then once again at Shay before staggering away without a word.

Shay chuckled lightly, taking a quick swig of his own ale. “I think I like him better this way.”

Haytham was quite enjoying himself, despite the occasional twinge of concern as he watched Connor work his way through several pints. Had they been alone he might have commented, but he knew Connor wouldn’t appreciate unnecessary fussing, especially in front of Shay.

Besides, Connor could take care of himself, and Haytham trusted him to know his own limits.

Pushing such thoughts aside, Haytham asked about any news from the European Templars and was soon happily engaged in a discussion about the Order with Shay. As their conversation moved on to broader topics, he was glad to see Shay making an effort to include Connor, asking after his opinions and his own experiences.

The warmth and camaraderie that seemed to develop between the three – especially as they continued to drink – was uncommonly pleasant, and Haytham realised he’d truly missed Shay.

As Grand Master he’d had to make many allies and acquaintances over the years, but he’d had very few friends. He was glad he could still call Shay one.

Hearing Connor mutter about needing some air, Haytham looked at him curiously and found him quite flushed with drink. Perhaps he hadn’t known his own limits quite so well after all, Haytham thought wryly.

As he rose unsteadily, the Assassin would most likely have fallen over had Shay not quickly moved to support him.

Haytham eyed the two of them speculatively, noting how Connor’s cheeks turned a deeper red, his pupils dilating at the sudden closeness.

Curious.

Perhaps he’d misread Connor’s behaviour after all.

“The strange thing is,” he answered Shay once Connor had left, “I think he likes you too.”

Perhaps stranger still was how little Haytham minded. In fact the more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed to him as he imagined the two of them together.

He wondered if Shay was interested, but was at a loss how to even bring up such a subject, especially without explaining his unorthodox relationship with his son.

In the end Shay beat him to the punch. “You know him quite well, don’t you,” the younger Templar mused as he stared out at the direction Connor had gone.

Haytham immediately grew wary, but Shay just laughed, leaning forward to pat the Grand Master boldly on the shoulder. “I _know_ you, Haytham,” he said warmly. “I can see you care about Connor, whether you admit it or not.”

Haytham said nothing, so Shay continued, “I heard rumours of the accusations levelled against you by Charles Lee. No one believes him,” he reassured Haytham hastily as the other Templar stiffened. “But seeing the two of you now, I wonder if his claims were as fictitious as everyone believed.

“I’m not here to reproach you,” he added sheepishly. “I’m glad you’ve found someone, sir. God knows you’ve both suffered enough in your lives; you deserve a little happiness.”

Haytham let out the breath he’d been holding. “I won’t admit to anything,” he warned sternly. “But I-... thank you, Shay.” He wanted to say more, to express his mixed feelings of relief and gratitude, but the words wouldn’t come.

 Shay seemed to understand.

Haytham cleared his throat, uncomfortable with such a personal discussion, especially in the middle of a crowded tavern. “I’d better make sure Connor is all right,” he said, excusing himself as he rose from the table. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Against all odds, Connor made the short trip downstairs without falling or otherwise making a fool of himself. The cool, evening wind as he stepped outside into the alley behind the tavern was a welcome reprieve from the sweltering heat indoors. It was already dark, Connor noticed— cloudy, a half-moon high in the sky— but the glow from the street lanterns filtering in was just enough that he could vaguely see.

He shuffled over to a nearby wall, head spinning and his vision swimming. Perhaps Shay had been right. For someone who seldom partook of alcohol, he likely drank too much, too fast. It certainly felt as though he had, at any rate.

Resting against the bricks, Connor tilted his head back and let his eyes slip shut. He remained that way until the tavern door swung opened once again, flooding the alleyway with light and the sounds of singing and raucous laughter. Connor cracked open an eye to see who was responsible.

It was Haytham.

The door clicked shut and they were bathed in darkness. Connor’s lids closed once more.

“I… I misjudged him,” he slurred after a few moments, “He seems… seems like a good man. For a Templar.”

“He is,” Haytham agreed, moving to stand next to Connor. “We’re lucky to have him.”

He waited a moment, enjoying the fresh air and relative silence of the street. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked, noting Connor’s closed eyes and slurred speech. At least he was just drunk this time, instead of drugged with opiates.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you drink before,” he continued. “No wonder you’re so easily affected.”

Reluctant as Haytham was to take advantage of Connor whilst intoxicated, he couldn’t help wondering if his current state would make him more amenable to suggestion. The idea of Shay and Connor together had yet to leave his mind, but he didn’t want his son to feel exploited.

He decided he may as well ask, curious as he was to see what Connor’s answer would be.

“Connor,” he began carefully, not quite certain how to approach such a topic sensitively. “It hasn’t escaped my notice that you seem quite taken with Shay. I’ve no intention of chiding you,” he added quickly. “Far from it. He’s a very handsome man, and I don’t blame you in the slightest for being attracted to him. The only reason I bring it up is because...” he paused, trying to formulate the best way to broach the subject. “Because if you want him, I will not stand in your way. But only this once,” he added in mock sternness. “You’re still mine after all.”

Connor had been just about to insist he was fine when, without warning, his secret infatuation with Shay suddenly became the topic of conversation. Well, he  _believed_  it had been a secret anyhow. It appeared he had been wrong. Very wrong, at that.

“What?” he sputtered and looked at Haytham, too shocked and confused to even begin to try to deny it. He was convinced he was hallucinating when Haytham then proceeded to tell him that he understood if Connor wished to experiment.

The Haytham he knew didn’t tolerate unfaithfulness in any form. There was no way his father would allow him, much less encourage him, to bed another man or woman. Connor undoubtedly wouldn’t were their positions reversed. Yet there was no denying how much Connor wanted to take up on the offer, real or imagined. Shay was captivating, and he couldn’t help wondering what bedding a man like him would be like. The Assassin shivered, whether from the breeze or the thought of Shay, he couldn’t be certain.

He  _was_  certain, however, he looked like a drunken fool as he walked unsteadily over to where Haytham stood. “Yours,” he repeated unconsciously, swaying somewhat before gripping the Templar’s shoulder, partly for balance and partly to reassure himself he was truly present and not a figment of his imagination. “It is… appealing,” he finally admitted, “but I… I do not think I can. Besides, it is likely he is not even attracted to men. Or to me.” This last was said in a near-whisper.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back!
> 
> Let the fanservice begin.  
> Like I said in the last chapter, I know Shay's presence in the story isn't to everyone's tastes, so you're perfectly welcome to skip this chapter and the next if you'd like.
> 
> Thank you to all of you for your patience with us, for both our slow updates and perhaps 'unpopular' decisions.  
> Both of us stand by these decisions, as this is of course an RP we have been writing for our own enjoyment, but at the same time I do apologise if any of these choices impact on _your_ enjoyment of this as a fic.
> 
> Anyway, on with the chapter!

 “Well we’ll just have to ask him then,” Haytham replied calmly, confident Shay would at least consider their proposition. Besides he could personally attest to the fact that the Irishman _was_ indeed attracted to men, given the right circumstances.

Perhaps it was wrong of him, but the more he thought about Connor and Shay together, the more he realised it was swiftly becoming somewhat of a fixation for him. Sometimes he wondered just where the last vestiges of his morality had disappeared to. Well, it wasn’t entirely selfish, he attempted to reassure himself. There was no reason why the others wouldn’t enjoy themselves.

The tavern door opened again, and the familiar outline of Shay appeared in the doorway.

“Wanted to make sure you two weren’t up to any mischief,” he teased.

Haytham smirked at the implication – it wasn’t as though they were entirely innocent after all. “Not _yet_ ,” he murmured, for the benefit of Connor’s ears only, before turning to address Shay properly.

“I think we’ve had enough for one night,” he said, with a glance at Connor. “Where are you staying, Shay? You are of course welcome to stay at my estate, if you wish.”

Sober, Connor might have been perturbed by Shay’s suggestive comment in regard to their absence, but dazed and just the slightest bit randy, it didn’t concern him overmuch. His mind was too entrenched on the thought of having the charming, lively Irishman all to himself. Connor was starting to consider all the lewd things he’d like to do to him when Haytham’s voice dragged him out of his fantasy.

“Thank you, sir. I’d made arrangements at an inn not too far from here, but I certainly wouldn’t say ‘no’ to a comfortable bed for the night.

“If I’m not intruding, of course,” he added, only half-jesting.

They made their way around front to the stables, Connor leaning heavily against his father by this point, and flagged down the stable hand. Shay handed over a few shillings then rejoined Connor and Haytham as the man went to fetch their horses. No more than ten minutes later, all three horses were brought out, saddled and ready to go.

Shay looked between the horses and Connor, the latter of whom could barely stand up straight without the added assistance of his father to support him.

“You know, Connor, perhaps you’d best ride with me.”

“What about my-…” Connor started to protest, but Shay cut him off, a hint of amusement in his tone. The boy was obviously sloshed. It was almost endearing. “We’ll board her here tonight, don’t worry, lad.”

After apologising to the stable hand and tipping him another shilling for his trouble, Shay helped the wobbly Assassin onto one of the horses before climbing into the saddle as well. He arched an eyebrow at Haytham when Connor rested his head against his shoulder and wrapped his arms around his middle but otherwise did not react.

When Connor had become so friendly towards him, Shay didn’t know. He knew the alcohol the younger man had ingested had probably gone a long way in breaking down some of his boundaries, but even so it seemed strange that his behaviour would have changed so drastically.

But then perhaps Haytham had been right earlier. Perhaps Connor _did_ like Shay more than he’d been letting on. That would explain why Connor had been so surly when they’d first encountered each other; of course he’d resent any attraction he felt for the Templar.

Shay wondered what Haytham’s part was in all this. He seemed to be fully aware of Connor’s confused feelings towards Shay, but did not seem at all bothered by them – if anything he seemed to be encouraging them. It seemed odd (he knew Haytham could be possessive at the best of times) but perhaps he’d become more liberal-minded in the years since Shay had last seen him.

Perhaps Shay should have been irritated by this subtle manipulation by his superior, but in all honesty he found himself rather flattered by the attention. Besides there was nothing subtle in the way Connor had pressed himself up against his back, his warm breath tickling the back of his neck.

Shay glanced at Haytham again and was met with a raised eyebrow and a knowing smirk. Deciding to test the limits of whatever game of seduction the two Kenways were apparently playing, Shay smirked back and edged back ever so slightly on his horse, effectively grinding his rear against Connor’s crotch in the process.

Connor gave a grunt of surprise when, while getting settled in the saddle, Shay ground up against him. He’d already been half-hard and raring to go since his second pint; having Shay there, teasing him with his close proximity and the shift of his behind, left Connor aching for more. How the Templar could not feel the swell of his erection, he wasn’t sure.

He tried to scoot back while still maintaining his steadying grip on Shay’s middle, but an arm shot out and held him still.

“Don’t need you falling off,” Shay said cheerfully, feigning innocence, and nudged their horse forward. The three of them rode at a steady walk down the road, away from the bustle of the tavern.

It wasn’t until they turned onto an empty street that Shay deliberately wriggled once more, tearing a barely audible whine from the Assassin’s throat. Connor heard and felt Shay’s ensuing chuckle before doing it again, this time to a quiet groan. Slowly, it began to dawn on him just what was happening. He was being toyed with.

Connor’s cheeks lit up like a fire but he didn’t move. Their horses continued along at the same loose pace.

He thought back on Haytham and their conversation earlier. Haytham  _had_ , for all intents and purposes, stated that ‘if he wanted him, he could have him.’ Yet Connor still had his reservations.

He wondered how difficult it would be to convince his father to join them. As much as he loathed the idea of sharing Haytham with anyone, he had to admit his involvement would help with any lingering hesitance. He supposed he would soon find out.

In the meantime, Connor decided to try his hand at a more immediate pursuit and gathered what remained of his ale-inspired courage. He was suddenly very grateful for the late hour— he’d most likely be arrested for what he was about to attempt.

Hands that had been wrapped around Shay’s waist, dropped below his belt. Connor glanced at Haytham as he clumsily found the bulge between his legs and squeezed. “You are not very subtle,” he breathed in Shay’s ear.

Shay hissed in a breath as he felt Connor unexpectedly reach down and grope him. “Says you,” he muttered back, chuckling and rocking provocatively into the younger man’s grip.

Haytham was fighting to keep his smirk off his face as he led the way down the street on his own horse. Things were turning out better than he could have imagined, and though he hadn’t turned to look at his two companions for some time, he had heard the quiet gasps and whispered comments. Despite not catching everything that was said, Haytham had no doubt of what was happening on the horse behind him. He was looking forward to seeing how things developed once they reached the privacy of his estate.

Impatient as he was, it seemed to be forever before they finally reached the gates of his property. Directing his horse into the stables, Haytham climbed down from the saddle and turned to give Shay and Connor a wry look. “If you can restrain yourselves for a few moments longer, I’d appreciate it,” he teased. “I’d rather not alarm the servants.”

Connor looked up from where he’d been discreetly mouthing Shay’s neck and then over at Haytham, who, despite his humorous tone, likely meant what he’d said. He nodded. Even after four mugs of ale, he could still vividly remember the look on the late servant’s face when he’d found him and his father kissing, amongst other things.

Shay gave the Assassin’s thigh a fond pat before sliding off the saddle and onto the ground. He paused to help Connor down, shaking his head in bemusement when the boy somehow managed to snag his foot on a stirrup. Once Connor was stable, Shay took the reins and led his horse into the stable after Haytham.

He felt a bit guilty as they handed the horses off to the stable hand— it was nearly after midnight— but the emotion was soon gone, replaced by the curiosity and anticipation of what might unfold.

They made their way inside, Connor half walking, half stumbling behind them, but it wasn’t until they were alone in Haytham’s quarters that the façade dropped and he shoved Shay against a wall, assailing his throat with lips, teeth and tongue.

Gripping the younger man’s waist, Shay locked eyes with Haytham over Connor’s shoulder.

“Surely you’re not going to stay over there,” he told his superior with a knowing look.

Haytham paused to enjoy the view, a slow hungry smile spreading across his features. “I’ve half a mind to let Connor enjoy you himself,” he replied, his eyes darkening as he admired how his son had taken advantage of his superior bulk to pin Shay against the wall. “It is his birthday after all.”

Stopping only to make sure the bedroom door was securely locked behind them, he turned his attention back to the others. “However,” he continued, “now that I see the two of you together, I must admit to the temptation of... indulging myself.”

He stalked closer, unhurried but intent, approaching from the side for better access to both men. Upon reaching them he drew Shay into a deep, lingering kiss that left both of them breathless once they pulled away again.

Shay groaned appreciatively, his eyes sliding shut as he tilted his head back against the wall, baring his throat further to Connor’s mouth.

The sound of his father’s voice coming from behind them, low and sultry and full of desire, sent heat straight to Connor’s groin. He hadn’t yet let Haytham in on his wish to turn their twosome into a threesome. However, it appeared that would no longer be necessary, if the noises coming from him and Shay were any indication. Perhaps it should have bothered him, knowing Haytham was kissing another man, but surprisingly, the thought only served to excite him more.

With a parting lick of Shay’s neck, Connor reached for Haytham’s cravat, dragging him in for a kiss of his own. As their tongues wrestled for dominance, he couldn’t help but feel there was something important he’d overlooked.

“Damn,” he heard Shay swear quietly. Connor froze and pulled away.

For all his planning, he’d neglected to consider one critical factor: Shay couldn’t find out about his relationship with Haytham.

He must have looked alarmed, because it wasn’t long before Shay was grinning and leaning in close to Connor’s ear with a purring “Don’t worry. I already know.”

“You do not mind-…?” Connor started but Shay snagged his lips before he could continue. When they withdrew, the Assassin was wide-eyed and breathless. Shay simply smiled. “If I did, I would hardly be here, now would I.”

He didn’t know how someone could be so accepting, but Connor was hardly about to question it.

A hand wedged between his thighs effectively halted any other drunken contemplation.

“So, tell me. What does the ‘birthday boy’ want?” Connor mumbled something unintelligible and canted his hips. “Sorry, what was that?” Shay taunted, running his fingers over the swell in his trousers. Shite, but the boy must be huge.

“Both,” Connor finally said, “Both of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to warn you, we've decided to put this fic on hiatus for a while to work on another project (which may also be published here, we haven't decided yet).
> 
> There's another chapter to go after this one, but from then on there won't be any updates for a while. We have a lot more ideas for this fic and therefore plan to return to it at some point and finish it, but I don't know when that will be.
> 
> Anyway a huge thank you to all of you who have followed this fic and have left comments and kudos, it really means a lot and we've been blown away by the positive response we've had while writing this.
> 
> I'll have the next chapter up soon, I promise! 
> 
> Stay safe <3


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is!
> 
> The final chapter, for now.
> 
> Enjoy!

Haytham and Shay exchanged glances, silently confirming each other’s agreement to the proposal. Neither of them saw any objection in the other’s face, only a slow-burning hunger, so they each returned their attention back to Connor.

“Then we must do our best to accommodate you,” Haytham said in a low voice, while Shay smirked and continued to tease the Assassin with light fingers.

Haytham moved to stand behind Connor so he could carefully divest his inebriated son of his coat, gently easing his arms back so the heavy garment could be pulled free.

Getting the idea, Shay paused in his caresses to unbuckle the boy’s belt, unable to resist drawing Connor into another kiss as he did so.

He should never have spent so much time away from Haytham, he thought ruefully. All his best adventures seemed to occur whilst in the company of the Grand Master.

Kissing Shay was quickly becoming his latest favourite activity, Connor mused while the two Templars started to strip him of his clothing.

As far as he was concerned, no one could nor ever  _would_  measure up to his father. He would sooner renounce the Brotherhood than trade Haytham for someone else, but the fact remained that Connor had still been a virgin before his stay at Fort George. He’d never experienced what being with another person was like much less considered it. This was new;  _exciting_.

He wanted more.

Once his arms were freed, Connor reached up to tangle a hand in Shay’s hair, fumbling open the many buttons of his coat with the other. Distantly, he heard his belt clatter on the floor. Then Shay was picking open the placket of his trousers, tugging them, as well as his leggings, down to pool at his ankles. Connor attempted to step out of them, but all thought came to a glaring halt when Shay grasped him through his smallclothes. He drew back from the older man’s lips with a moan.

Shay chuckled lowly, giving in to the slight thrust of Connor’s hips and pumping his fist. The fabric was already damp in places from pre-ejaculate, and Shay couldn’t help but feel guilty for teasing the Assassin for so long.

“What else?” he prodded, “I’d hate to disappoint.”

Connor rocked into Shay’s grip. “I do not kn-…” he tried to answer but choked off in a whine as Shay decided to quit stroking his cock in favour of toying with the head.

“What does your father normally do?” The only response he received was a quiet groan. Shay gave a put-upon sigh, although it was obvious from the quirk of his lips that he was hardly annoyed. He tried the Grand Master instead. “Haytham? What do you think?”

Haytham gave Connor an appraising look, noting how distracted and desperate he already seemed. “Well to begin with he’s certainly not going to last long if you carry on like that,” he commented wryly, rather mesmerised by the movement of Shay’s hand - and Connor’s reactions - despite himself.

“Though,” he continued thoughtfully, “it might be beneficial to us to have Connor more... _relaxed_.” The sleepy daze Connor seemed to fall into post-climax could only be conducive to his ability to take both Templars at once. Besides, he was young enough that it was perfectly possible that it wouldn’t be his last orgasm of the night.

Shay’s grin was full of mischief. “I’d best stop teasing then,” he murmured, and promptly plunged his hand into Connor’s smallclothes to stroke him properly, skin to skin.

Haytham paused to watch for a moment before continuing his earlier mission of stripping Connor of all clothing, swiftly unbuttoning his shirt with nimble fingers and pulling it off. Then, unable to help himself, he moved so he was standing behind Connor, wrapping a supportive (if not possessive) arm around his waist and dropping a kiss on his newly bared shoulder.

It was all Connor could do to concentrate on the conversation around him. He knew Haytham well enough to tell when the man had something up his sleeve, and although he wasn’t nearly as familiar with Shay’s personality, he would hasten to guess he was in on the plan as well. Maybe he should have been wary of what the two were plotting, but arousal left very little room for common sense.

Connor’s knees buckled when, at last, Shay’s hand wormed its way inside his underclothes and closed around his cock. He smiled crookedly, watching the expressions play across the young Native’s face. It was astounding how someone so quiet and reserved could be so unbridled in his pleasure. 

Pausing just long enough to work Connor’s smallclothes past his hips, Shay resumed his attentions on his cock, wasting no time in building up a steady rhythm. He watched as Connor tipped his head back against Haytham’s shoulder, gripping the Grand Master’s arm as if his very life depended upon it, and a word that couldn’t have been English. If this was how he reacted to a mere handjob…

Shay had to force himself to focus back on the task at hand.

He tightened his grip, intent on getting the boy off as quickly as possible. Which, judging by his gasps and the slight tremble of his muscles, would not be long.

“Shay-… I cannot-…” Connor stammered and clutched Haytham’s arm even harder. Shay ignored him, choosing instead to stroke even faster.  

The Assassin came not a minute later with a muffled cry.

Shay worked him through the brunt of it, only stopping once Connor was breathless and shuddering, leaning on Haytham for support.

Haytham watched all this transpire with an openly lustful gaze, quietly entertained by the death grip Connor had on his arm, and the way his body still trembled as he was forced to support himself against the Templar.

He savoured the moment for a second longer before locking eyes with Shay over Connor’s shoulder. The younger man looked as affected as Haytham felt, dark gaze almost predatory as it lingered on Connor.

“Shall we?” Haytham said smoothly, glancing meaningfully at the bed.

Shay’s answering grin was full of teeth.

Between the two of them they were able to carefully support Connor over to the bed, then impatiently began to shed their own clothing, heavy coats, shirts and trousers all set to one side.

Haytham retrieved a bottle of oil from where it was stashed in a drawer near his bed and moved back to stand by Shay, desire-ridden gazes focused back on the Assassin.

“How would you have us, Connor?” Haytham asked, low and suggestive.

“Perhaps a better question is which of us you would have below you,” Shay elaborated. “And above,” he added with a smirk.

Connor’s eyes flitted between the two naked Templars.

“What?” he finally asked after several long seconds, dragging his gaze up from where it had been fixed on Shay’s groin. Shay climbed onto the bed beside the Assassin, once again repeating, “Which one of us would you have below and above you?”

Above? Below? Connor blinked, still shaken from the force of his orgasm. “I do not understand…” Shay helped him lie down then sat back up, but not before stealing a quick kiss. “You said you wanted us both, isn’t that right?” Connor nodded slowly. “Then you’re going t’have to tell us who’s going where if you want the both of us to fit.”

Understanding gradually crept onto his face and Connor coloured in shock. That was _not_  what he’d intended when he’d said he wanted Shay and Haytham both— and yet… There was a decidedly… appealing factor to the concept. What would it feel like, having two men inside him at once? How would they do it? Would they even fit?

His cock gave a twitch of interest; Shay noticed and reached down to palm the sensitive flesh, causing Connor to jolt. “And?” the Irishman prompted with a chuckle.

“Let me ride you first.”

Shay was more than happy to oblige, eager to further the corruption of the surprisingly innocent Assassin.

He sprawled out comfortably on the bed next to Connor, completely unabashed in his nudity, and motioned for Haytham to come closer so he could hand over the oil.

Haytham all but prowled forwards, his outward calm disguising the ravenous hunger he felt as his eyes traced the naked forms before him.

He passed the oil to Shay, letting their fingers brush against each other lightly and enjoying the brief spark of contact. He knew he would have to be patient if Connor was to adjust to Shay first, and he took an almost masochistic thrill in teasing himself in the meantime.

Shay took the oil with a nod of thanks and refocused his attention on Connor. “Do you want to prepare yourself or shall I?” he asked, even as he uncorked the bottle to douse his fingers generously, and then wrapped them around his cock.

Connor said nothing as he snatched the bottle out of Shay’s grasp and wriggled onto his side. Preparing his body for another man’s cock was as second nature to the Assassin as his warm-ups before an afternoon of training. The process could be quick and efficient or drawn-out and meant to gratify. Tonight, he wasn’t in the mood to fool around— he wanted Shay inside him as quickly as was possible. So, unsurprisingly, he decided to take care of matters on his own.

Coating his hand until his fingers shone slick with oil, Connor hiked up a leg and dipped two of them between the cleft of his rear, watching with dilated pupils as the Templar lazily pleasured himself beside him, cock jumping and filling at the sight. He teased his opening briefly with the tip of his index finger before taking a steadying breath and easing it in to the third joint. It hadn’t been long since he and his father had last had sex— barely a day, in fact— and Connor found it easy to work in a second then finally a third finger.

Connor’s eyes were solely on Shay as he withdrew his hand. Rolling over, he set the remaining oil on the nightstand.

It took him a fair bit of time, but eventually, he managed to straddle himself across Shay’s thighs, and, batting away his hand, Connor took hold the Irishman’s erection. Normally, he might have been interested in the subtle differences between Shay’s body and Haytham’s, but right then, Connor was focused on one thing and one thing only. With knees resting on either side of Shay’s torso, he hastily guided his cock to rest against his entrance, bearing down with little resistance. 

Any amusement Shay felt at Connor’s insistence of doing everything himself was swiftly replaced by mind-numbing pleasure as his cock was engulfed in the tight heat of Connor’s body.

Hissing out a curse, he locked eyes with Haytham who was watching the proceedings with an expression of supreme interest. Haytham gave him a knowing smirk, and of course he would know, wouldn’t he?

His breath stuttering in his throat at the thought, Shay carefully rested both hands on Connor’s waist to steady him, and then grinned somewhat dazedly over at the Grand Master.

“Were you not planning on joining us, sir?” he asked pointedly.

Haytham had felt an immediate surge of possessiveness come over him the moment Connor sunk down onto Shay’s length, but it was all but drowned out by the sheer lust that ran through him at the sight. 

Retrieving the bottle from where Connor had left it on the nightstand, Haytham hurriedly used it to coat his own erection in oil before putting it aside again and approaching the bed.

“Are you still certain you want this, Connor?” he asked quietly, already a bit breathless. Connor already looked so _full_ , impaled as he was on Shay’s cock. “This may hurt.”

“ _Do it_ ,” Connor all but demanded, rolling his hips and hissing a breath as Shay’s cock slid into and out of his body.

As eager as he was to experience sex with another individual, it wouldn’t be the same without Haytham there to experience it with him. Drunk or no, were it not for his father’s willingness to participate, Connor wasn’t certain he would have even been capable of carrying on such an impulsive fantasy. He  _was_ curious, yes, not to mention more than a bit aroused, but Haytham was his lover, his  _other half_ , and his involvement was crucial.

Never mind the fact Connor couldn’t stop thinking about fucking both Templars at once.

One hand braced on Shay’s chest, the Assassin reached behind with the other to trace where he was stretched around the Templar’s girth. He pressed against the muscle experimentally. It would be a tight fit and would likely be uncomfortable, Connor thought as he eased a finger in alongside Shay’s cock, but with a little coaxing, he was confident it could work.

A sudden thrust from below drew a ragged gasp from his throat, and Connor looked down at Shay who was making a rather poor attempt at appearing innocent. Withdrawing his finger, Connor was too overwhelmed to be annoyed, instead allowing Shay’s hands around his waist to help guide him into a slow but steady rhythm. His lips parted, eyes slipping shut, and Shay chuckled breathlessly beneath him before tapering off into a quiet groan.

Seeing Connor withdraw his finger from inside himself was the last straw for Haytham; he couldn’t possibly wait any longer.

Moving onto the bed and positioning himself behind Connor, he restrained himself just long enough to ask “Are you ready?”

At Connor’s sound of affirmation, Haytham steadied himself with a hand on his son’s flank and began to ease in very carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of distress.

It was _tight._

Haytham couldn’t suppress a quiet hiss of surprise as Connor’s body strained to accept his girth alongside Shay’s. Slowly, slowly, he continued to press in, pausing often to allow all three of them time to become accustomed to the intense sensation.

It was certainly a novelty, Haytham reflected absently, to feel the hard heat of Shay’s cock against his, the oil warming between them to create a feeling of silky indulgence.

Given enough time and patience, Haytham was eventually able to bury himself to the hilt within Connor, and he exhaled at the effort.

Haytham’s concentration was almost entirely occupied with painstaking caution, so Shay took it upon himself to distract Connor in the meantime. He was affected by the sudden increase in pressure around his cock too of course, but there was little he was required to do but lie back and bear it.

Giving the Assassin a concerned look, Shay reached out to wrap his fingers around Connor’s own erection and renewed his previous attentions with generous strokes of his hand.

Connor was no stranger to pain. He’d been stabbed and shot, kicked, hit and strangled until nearly unconscious, yet nothing could have prepared him for the moment Haytham slowly began easing inside. He hadn’t expected it to be pleasant, certainly not initially, but neither had he expected it to be quite so unbearable. Eyes clenched shut, Connor fought the urge to tell him to stop and instead forced himself to take deep, shaky breaths.

He could hear as well as feel just how careful his father was being, but the farther he pushed, the more and more strained the Assassin became. By the time he was fully impaled on both Templars’ cocks, Connor was trembling, muscles tense. Spirits, it  _hurt_.

“Wait,” he practically begged. Distantly, he felt a sympathetic hand close around his flagging erection, attempting to coax him back into hardness. It was of some help but not enough.

A full minute passed and he was just starting to believe he’d bitten off more than he could chew when the slightest shift caused the tip of Shay’s cock to nudge firmly against his prostate and Connor choked back at surprised groan. Despite the ache, he angled his hips forward. The resultant pressure on his prostate was near-paralysing in its intensity. Connor swore softly.

Taking the hint, Shay rocked upward, pleased as Connor’s cock twitched in his fingers, swelling further. He teased the foreskin and swiped a thumb over the head. “You all right, lad?”

Connor nodded stiffly. He could do this.

“Move.”

Haytham was beginning to have second thoughts about whether or not this was a good idea. Though he couldn’t see Connor’s face from his position behind him, he could hear clearly the pain in his voice and wondered if he shouldn’t put a stop to their activities.

Any pleasure he felt from the intense tightness of Connor’s body meant nothing if it came at the cost of such discomfort for his son.

At last a minute change in position seemed to afford Connor some relief, and Haytham was somewhat reassured by the way the Assassin began to carefully push back against Shay, finding a bearable position before ordering them to move.

Still concerned, Haytham obeyed nonetheless. Cautiously he and Shay began a slow synchronised rhythm; Shay pulling back as Haytham pushed forward.

The pain didn’t magically dissipate— not that Connor had expected it to— but it did lessen however, the longer Haytham and Shay moved in sync inside him.

With so little room between the mattress and the two men above him, there was not much force behind Shay’s thrusts. Not that Connor minded. His cock was a constant pressure against his prostate, and each small prod and rub was both agonising and exquisite. He was more than aware of the striking amount of pleasure it could bring despite knowing little about the gland itself, but never had he imagined the sensation could be this strong.

His erection throbbed in Shay’s hand, a near-endless string of pre-ejaculate seeping from the tip, and Connor whined as the assault on his prostate turned merciless. When his second orgasm was inevitably torn from him, it was a long, drawn-out process that had the Assassin keening by the end. A third washed over him not long after, brought on by overstimulation and Shay’s grip on his still-rigid cock. It was barely more than a few drops but Connor couldn’t keep his cries contained. It was simply too much.

Every subsequent jab of his prostate sent aftershocks racking through his frame, and Connor’s head dipped to Shay’s shoulder, panting, his arms shaking. “ _Please_ ,” he implored as Shay continued to stroke him, milking him for everything he was worth and revelling in the way his inner muscles fluttered and clenched around him. “Shay.  _Father._  I cannot-…” His voice faded into a moan.

Connor’s pained breaths seemed to have fully given way to gasps of pleasurable desperation, much to Haytham’s considerable relief. This was more or less the last rational thought that passed through his mind, as Connor’s muscles squeezed impossibly tighter around him and Shay.

The unrelenting heat and constriction around them left them both completely overwhelmed, mindless in their pursuit of pleasure as they continued their almost frantic pattern of push and pull, still buried deep within Connor.

Both Templars barely lasted through the onslaught of Connor’s second orgasm, and by the third, Shay could no longer resist the need for release. With one last upwards thrust of his hips, he came with a strangled moan, his body shuddering beneath the Assassin’s as he spilled inside him.

The resulting sensation was undeniably filthy, as Haytham felt the sudden sleek wetness of the other man’s essence alongside his cock, but the lewdness of it served only to spur him on all the more.

He held on for a few more choice thrusts before he at last plunged deep one last time and came with a growl muffled against Connor’s sweat-slick shoulder.

Taking a moment to collect himself, and to let his laboured breaths begin to even out, Haytham slowly pulled out, watching with some fascination as the combined seed of he and Shay oozed out of Connor’s ludicrously stretched hole in his wake.

Dragging his eyes away from the sight, Haytham moved on the bed so he was sitting next to Connor, and gently touched the exhausted Assassin’s cheek. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly.

A garbled “fine” was all Connor could manage as he eased off of Shay’s softening cock and rolled to the side.

It would be several long days before his body would recover from  _that_ , Connor thought as he tentatively flexed his over-stretched muscles and winced. He dreaded to know what a trip to the latrine would be like.

Blinking tiredly, Connor twisted onto his back. Perhaps it would have been in his best interest to clean up first— his entire chest was coated in spend and his thighs sticky from where the Templars’ release continued to drip from his abused hole— but he was exhausted and still dizzy from too much drink. All he wanted was to rest.

Connor didn’t try to hide the way he leaned into Haytham’s palm, craving his touch even now. He scooted closer, making to reach for his father’s hand, before promptly passing out.

Shay snorted and sat up, careful not to jostle the bed too much. Not that it would make much difference, he supposed. Connor didn’t look like he’d be waking up again any time soon, poor lad.

“Well,” Shay finally looked up at Haytham, “That was… not exactly what I’d expected when I said I’d come to New York.” He stood up, searching for his underdrawers amongst the jumbled mess of clothing on the floor. He found them after a moment or two. “You’re a lucky man, Haytham,” he added, somewhat more serious, and tugged them on. 

“I know,” Haytham replied quietly, gaze uncharacteristically soft as it rested on his son.

He dragged his eyes away to look at Shay. “Will you stay in here tonight?” he asked him. “I can have a room made up for you-”

“Let your servants sleep, Haytham,” Shay interrupted him with a chuckle. “There’s plenty of room in here for the three of us. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning.”

Haytham scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Stay for breakfast,” he ordered. “I’d wager you haven’t had a decent meal since you left London.”

Shay grinned at him. “Does Connor know you’re such a mother hen?” he teased.

“No,” Haytham’s mouth twitched. “So don’t go telling him.”

“I wouldn’t _dream_ of it, sir,” Shay drawled, stretching out on his back into a luxurious sprawl.

Haytham rolled his eyes, giving the Irishman a shove so he could slot himself between him and Connor on the bed. He knew Connor would be in quite a state of pain when he woke up the next morning, but it seemed to help him to know Haytham was right there beside him.

Shay watched him get comfortable, then sighed and pulled himself to his feet to blow out the lamp’s flame himself, plunging the room into darkness.

That done, he returned to the big master bed and tucked himself back in next to Haytham.

“Night, sir,” he murmured.

“Good night, Shay,” Haytham replied sleepily. Wrapping a loose arm around his exhausted son’s waist, he pulled himself closer and closed his eyes.

Tired out, both he and Shay were asleep within minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is now officially **on hiatus**.  
>  I don't know when we'll return, but in the meantime we're working on something new and exciting, so keep an eye out for that in the future.  
> Thank you so much, everyone!  
> We'll see you back here soon! ❤️❤️


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